Life During Wartime
by O PolemArch
Summary: Cowritten with Toblerone. A TimCass story set some time after Tim's 19th Birthday. AU set after War Games, ignores Infinite Crisis. Batgirl and Robin fight for the saftey of Blüdhaven while trying to figure out their relationship. Reviews appreciated.
1. Life in the Fast Lane

**Life During Wartime**

Disclaimer: We own nothing but any character we happen to create entirely new. Everything else related to these superheroes is owned by DC Comics.

Author's Note: This story is being written jointly by myself and my esteemed coauthor and sister Toblerone. Unless noted otherwise, odd chapters will be written by myself and from the perspective of Tim Drake, and even ones will be written by my sister from the perspective of Cassandra Cain. We cross-edit. They may or may not cover the same events at the same time, but should generally stick together.

Oh, and see if you can catch all the song titles.

**Chapter 1**

**Life in the Fast Lane**

Ahhh, I love this job, sometimes. This car is _fast._ Ridiculously so. Not "feel the wind in your hair" fast, not "wheee this is fun!" fast, no, this car is way beyond that. The car is "don't open the windows or your face will be sucked out" fast, it's "streaks of flame on the pavement" fast, it's "eyeballs in when you hit the accelerator, eyeballs out when you hit the brakes" fast. I'm talking ludicrous speed. It's a gas turbine (read: jet engine) with wheels, a shell, and a seat attached. Like in a fighter jet, you don't so much drive _in_ it as _on_ it. At these speeds, every turn is a near-death experience. By all accounts, I should be dead. This car _rocks_. Even before the special features.

And, boy, are there special features. Autopilot. Heads-up-display. GPS guidance. Multi-band radio—UHF, VHF, the works. Rear-view camera (that's right, camera. There are mirrors for backup, but the camera rocks.). Radar- navigation, search, scan. Jamming package. Targeting computer. Missile launchers. Tow cable with a grappling hook. Titanium alloy armor. Reactive armor (in case of anti-tank weapons). Self-sealing, re-inflatable tires. Armored underbody. Smokescreen. Tear gas launchers. Tank trap (to get rid of those pesky tails). Multi-thousand volt security system. Fins. Hermetically sealed cockpit (in case of nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons). Bulletproof canopy and lights. Extra seat, in case you need to pick up… whoever. Surround sound stereo. And, the icing on the cake, a sweet black and red exterior.

It's nice when you work for someone with a practically unlimited budget. It also helps that he's almost your father at this point. I don't think any of my old friends from school got _these_ kind of keys for their 17th birthdays. Not that the car uses actual keys, mind you, but it's the principle of the thing.

Of course, the ironic part is, it's strictly a work car. Not like I can just cruise around in it. I mean, I could, but there's any number of people who would be extremely unhappy if I did so. Well, at least three or four. This is ok, mostly, because I like my job. My _unpaid_ job. Ok, not totally unpaid. I mean, I have this car, right? And the room and board, and the food, and the clothes, and the facilities…ok, so not so unpaid. I just don't get a check every month like normal people.

And the schedule's weird. It's definitely a night job. I spend my days asleep or in a cave. Or at school, if I can make it. As much as I enjoy learning, school just can't compare. Especially to what I'm about to do.

Which, by most standards, is absolutely insane. For me and my "family," perfectly normal. Commonplace, even. There's a group of people ahead of me in the alley between two old warehouses. They're negotiating a deal of some sort. Not the sort that your mother would typically approve of. I plan to make sure the deal is never closed.

Quickly, I enter a rapid series of commands into the car's computer. Got to make sure it doesn't run me over, or the dealers. I give it a few more commands, then, steeling myself, I press the red button (It's always the red button. Always. Someone has a twisted sense of humor. Probably Bruce).

I grab onto my cape and wait three seconds, and it seems like an eternity. On cue, a number of things happen. The car suddenly slows. The canopy above me slides back. My seat angles forward. My legs and arms are pulled tight into my sides, and the five-point harness I was wearing tightens even more. With a sudden "BANG" and a kick in the rear, I'm airborne. About a tenth of a second later, my hands and legs are free, and I spread my arms wide, using my cape as an airbrake. I hear the car brake rapidly and turn down a side street. The ground is approaching at an alarming speed now, so I brace for impact and roll with it, my heavily reinforced boots protecting my feet from major injury, my Kevlar-based clothing keeping me from getting massive blacktop burns. Coming out of my roll, I see that my timing was good, and the first punk is exactly where I thought he should be. A simple extension of my right fist sends him flying backward, likely with a broken nose. Counting four more thugs, I extend my titanium collapsible bo staff, and launch into a series of rapid attacks before any of them can figure out what's going on. I execute a butterfly kick at the nearest threat, which is behind me, and feel my boots connect with his temple in rapid succession. A second man moves towards me in an attempt to tackle but merely receives the butt of my staff in the chest for his effort. He stumbles and I use a sweeping kick to take his feet out from under him, and ensure he's incapacitated with a swift punch to the head. The third by now has sufficiently recovered to recognize me; he's pulled a gun and is raising it. I drop into a low stance, keeping out of the line of fire, and I flick the gun up with my staff, and then spin the bo around to smack him in the wrist. It's likely fractured, and he drops the gun in pain. I finish up with a cavity press technique to the artery in his neck- the sudden pressure in the bloodstream makes the brain react and drop his blood pressure rapidly; he's unconscious in a second. The fourth has yet to react, from fear, so he gets the dubious distinction of being my interrogation subject for the evening. Sucks to be him, but so it goes.

This is one of the parts of my job that I dislike the most, but also one of the most important. I grab the guy by the collar and force him against the alley wall, hard, with my staff. I'm using _the voice_, a technique I picked up from my mentor. It's a low, gravely sound that would have made Darth Vader proud. I sound almost inhuman, and I'm sure that the fact that my mask makes my eyes appear as white shapes absent of pupils adds to the effect; the guy, nervously glancing at his unconscious cohorts has no qualms about selling all of them and his employers out, if it means he doesn't have to go home in traction. He tells me nothing new, which isn't entirely surprising. I already knew who his boss was, and what they were trading. There is a purpose to this meeting, though. At the end of our conversation, I let him know who I am and what I'm doing in this city. I then physically toss him out of the alley onto the sidewalk, and he runs off like a scared animal.

At this point, I figure I should probably tie up the rest of these guys and give the cops a call, but then I realize the job's already been done for me. Very neatly, and with black handcuffs that have little yellow bat insignias on them. Figures she'd show up about now.

"Hi Robin. Fun night?"

I turn to face Batgirl, who, true to form, is standing directly behind me, in the shadows of the alley. If my mask is intimidating, hers is the face of fear itself. Her entire face is covered; where her eyes should be, there are black reflective lenses. Her ears are thin, tall, spiked bat ears. Where her nose and mouth should be, there is a piece of black fabric that looks like it's been badly stitched on, like the stitched-on skin you see in horror movies. In the right light, you can sometimes see her facial features beneath it. This is not the right light. She appears to have no face at all, and her long cloak with the spiked shoulders and the spikes on her forearms combine to make her appear to be a bona fide evil demon. A really sexy evil demon.

….

I did not just think that. I mean, of course she looks good. She's an extremely athletic former assassin, and possibly the premier martial artist in the world. She's in good shapes. _Shape_. I meant shape. Yeah. No ulterior motives there.

"Yeah, more or less. Did you already call the police?"

"Oracle did it. We should go."

"Yeah"

Batgirl reaches to her belt, probably to pull out a grappling gun. I raise my hand to stop her.

"Wait. You're going in after this, right?"

She nods. It _is_ beginning to get light, and we don't do daytime much.

"Here, I've got the car. I'll drive you home. It's faster."

I don't know if she really believes that, especially with her uncanny ability to read your body language like you were shouting your thoughts out loud, but if she has any objections, she doesn't raise them. I hit the remote on my glove that controls the car remotely (yet another of its seemingly endless array of extra features) and it comes whipping around the corner, and brakes hard right in front of us. Canopy slides open, we hop in, we take off and in seconds we are definitely topping the Blüdhaven PD's "most wanted speeders" list. Not that they could catch us, even if they tried. Which they don't. Not after the first time.

This though brings a slight smile to my face, and Batgirl, whom nothing escapes, notices.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing. Never nothing. I can see it on your face."

She's got me there. "Remember that time the police tried to pull us over for speeding?"

"Yeah! Funny!" She laughs. I love that laugh. Giggly, but not annoying. Almost childish, but you can tell she's no child.

I think way too much about this.

In any case, the incident which I referred to above took place one night where Batgirl and I were returning from a visit to Gotham and were speeding to return to our "cave" and apartments before the sun arose, since masked vigilantes on the highway during morning rush hour tend to attract attention. As it was a warm summer night, we were using our bikes (also sweet pieces of equipment, but not as much fun in the winter) and going, say, 25 miles per hour over the limit, not nearly full speed, but enough to get us there before sunrise. Well, the highway patrolman apparently decided that he didn't care who was driving the vehicle as long as he gave someone a ticket- maybe he was short on quota. We passed an entrance to the highway, and all of a sudden, there was a set of sirens and lights going off behind us. We looked at each other for a moment, and for one reason or another, Batgirl decided to start slowing down. Perhaps she felt mischievous. That happens sometimes.

And watch out when it does. At first she made as though she was going to pull over, but after slowing down just a bit, she suddenly jerked the bike to the left, braked hard, and wound up cruising alongside the patrol car on the driver's side, looking into the open window, with me observing all this with my rear-view mirror. I could tell she was smiling, even though I couldn't see it, because her next move was to yell "HI!" to the policeman, giggle (both of these things I hear over our radio network), and then accelerate to full speed. Something like 250 miles an hour. I think the cop probably figured out that he couldn't catch this one by the sudden burst of flame from the rocket boosters that we conveniently had installed a few weeks earlier. Taking hers as my cue, I also gunned the engine, likely leaving the policeman to wonder what exactly had just transpired, and how he was supposed to report it on the radio. We pulled off at our "exit" (a break in the guardrail leading to a break in a fence leading to the parking lot of an abandoned train station leading to the tunnel that leads to our cave), parked the bikes, exchanged a glance, and promptly fell over laughing, stumbling the whole way to the changing room.

In any case, back to the present. We're getting close to the cave. Hard left on 37th. Bear right on Rose Ave. Hang a left into the parking lot right next to the rail yard, watch out for the fallen telephone pole. Follow the road along the transit rail's right-of-way, but don't turn left at the engine shop—instead, continue along the train tracks till you get to the abandoned tunnel. Go into it, and hope the IFF transponder is working (I don't remember it ever having failed, but I've seen the defenses in that tunnel, and I'd hate to be the guy who found out what it was like on the business end of _that_ hardware. Non-lethal, like everything else we use, that's for sure, but there are degrees of things that will damage but not kill you. These get awfully close to the line).

This tunnel used to be part of the subway system, back when all of the mass transit in the city was owned by one company. The subway and the commuter trains and the other trains all ran on the same right of way and the riders all gave their money to the same group of families. That was, of course, before the advent of anti-trust lawsuits. Now, the city subsidizes a variety of different companies for its different services, and this line has fallen into disuse. When Dick decided to make Blüdhaven his base of operations, he bought almost this entire subway line from the city, and it is now owned by Grayson Security, a subsidy of WayneTech. We seem to be the only ones who've noticed. There weren't even any homeless living in there when we moved in.

In any case, once past the automated defenses, just follow the tunnel until you reach what Cass has dubbed the "Batstation" (creative, I know), an abandoned subway station located directly beneath Cass's house. It's pretty big, and includes parking spots for several bikes, Cass' computer/security console/Batcave link, an _extensive_ exercise area with a sparring mat, a small army of destructible dummies, a veritable armory of close combat weapons, a full bathroom, and Cass's uniform vault, with her spare equipment. Also that freaky fireman's pole to her apartment which you can ride both up and down. Still trying to figure out how Bruce pulled that one off. Doesn't feel like a repulsor field, but isn't anything as simple as air suction or just a moving pole. Maybe a low intensity forcefield that travels up and down the pole? I'll have to hit the Batcave technical files. Whatever.

I bring the Redbird (MK. III) to a stop by the side of the cave, near the vault, and pop the hatch. Batgirl releases her five-point harness (Did I mention those? Yeah, you need them to keep from bouncing around the interior during high-speed maneuvers), and in a beautifully graceful leap, bounds out of the car and lands next to it. She looks at me.

"Goodnight, Tim."

I look back, maybe for a little too long. I feel like I should say something, but I don't know what it is. Ever have that feeling? When you're dying to tell someone something but can't quite get it out, because you haven't worked up the courage? It's like that, but I don't even know what I want to say. I manage to stutter out a "G'night," and snap my head away. I latch the canopy shut and, suddenly angry with myself for a reason I can't quite place, gun the engine and peel out the other side of the cave into the tunnel leading to the Robin's Nest.

Yes, I came up with that name. So sue me, I was 16, and it stuck. It is, obviously, my version of the Batcave, and occupies the top floor of a six story building, the top three of which are owned by myself (well, mostly: A division of WayneCorp which conveniently split off from the main corporation on my 18th birthday, and of which I am the CEO and primary employee. Bruce maintains enough control that I can't sell it without his permission, but I can do whatever else I feel like to the place. Batgirl has a similar deal going with the Batstation and her house.). The two floors below the Nest appear to be abandoned and are filled with enough buffer, misdirection, and security that to reach the top floor you either need to be me, an elite security hacker (and observant enough to find all three systems), or skilled in the creative use of precision high-explosives. Vehicular access for the garage portion of the Nest is provided by abandoned elevated train lines that were originally used back when this part of the city was a meat market and this building a slaughterhouse to bring cattle into the building. Now, the old train tracks have been removed, the structural integrity of the bridge improved, and a heavy duty garage door installed. To cover my entrances, there are also smoke stacks in the building below which billow steam whenever the Redbird approaches the building.

I park the Redbird in it's space in the garage, and haul myself out of the cockpit, feeling glum. _Damn it, Drake, you should have said something._ Said what? What am I supposed to have said? _Anything's better than 'good night' and blasting down the tunnel._ Well, I'm tired. Needed to get home. _A likely story_.

I probably shouldn't argue with my subconscious this much.

Walking to the vault, I begin taking off my uniform, starting with the mask. Mechanically, cape, belt, tunic, gloves, leggings, and boots come off, and go in their respective places. In my skivvies now, I walk over to the door and head for the shower. The water comes on; I step in. Cass's pink shampoo and conditioner sit innocently on the rack inside. This is not surprising; for some reason, she likes my shower better than hers, and sneaks in here every so often when I'm in class or otherwise removed from my apartment. I don't mind, although she has this irritating habit of also eating all my breakfast cereals, especially my all-important Rice Crispies, one of the things that keep me going these days. I keep meaning to tell her to stop, but it slips my mind every time I run into her. I did give her a box of them as a gift before, but I don't think she got the message. There is one good thing that came of this: I had an excuse to install a second water heater in the apartment to ensure my continued supply of hot showers, what with the extra water use.

My thoughts drift back to my "performance" earlier tonight. Why do I feel so bad about it? We're… colleagues. We don't need to make small talk… _Sure you're colleagues._ Shut up, little-voice-in-the-back-of-my-head-which-represents-my-conscience. _No, you know there's something else. _Ugh.

Fine, I admit it. I think I like her. The idea kind of freaks me out. And what's more, she probably knows. Ok, almost definitely. I mean, she can read entire battle plans off my face. She can dodge bullets by observing the shooter's movements and predicting where the shots will go. Body language, not English, is her first language. How could she not know? But then what drives me nuts about it is why doesn't she say anything? Lost for words, maybe? Bad joke, I know. She can't read or speak all that well, even after that psychic rearranged her frontal lobe to let her understand human language. But still… Does that mean she doesn't like me? But then why doesn't she tell me so? How can someone so observant just let a guy hang like that?

I sound like I'm in middle school. I haven't felt this way since…Shit. Steph. Oh boy, Tim, Memory Lane is not where you really want to be right now.

I finish my shower and step out, drying myself off, and head for my bedroom. I throw on some night clothes and check my messages.

BEEP "HeyTimitsBartIwaswonderingifyouwantedtohangoutandlikeplaypoolorsomethingaftertheTitansmeetingonFridaycallmebye!"

I blink and roll my eyes. Damn speedsters. Will have to slow that down on the computer.

BEEP "Robbie…I mean Timmy? Did you hear about Bart's thing or whatever after the meeting on Friday? Something about going to the pool? Isn't it like, a little cold for that? Anyway, call me when you figure it out… I know you always do, bye!"

Wonder Girl. That's it. I'm never giving out my home number to other heroes ever again. Ever.

BEEP "Hey man, it's Gar… you hear about Bart's pool hall idea? Sounds alright, but that reminds me…we are _way_ overdue for a BYOB party. Probably my place. Oh, and bring BG. She hasn't been to one of our shindigs yet. If nothing else, it will be entertaining to see how she deals with Bart."

Hmm. Sounds like… well, a party. I like parties. It feels good to act my age, every so often, instead of a super-mature highly disciplined soldier in a never-ending war on crime. Contrary to popular belief, we teenage vigilantes are not all goodie-two-shoes and straight laces. I shudder to think of the number of times I could be charged with assault if by some divine edict I was caught and made to go to court; and that's just us in the Bat family. I will go so far as to say that we are more responsible than most about laws and such, but we are still human, you know. And hell, Beast Boy is 24.

BEEP "Yo, Tim, Bro. Have you talked to Babs lately? I…well…uh…well… She hasn't mentioned anything, has she? I mean, anything about me? All lies, I say. All lies. Anyway, call me. We need to chill."

Poor, poor Dick. What a way with women, that one.

BEEP "Tim, this is Bruce. Check your mail. Your _other_ mail."

Short and to the point, yet cryptic at the same time. So very Batman.

BEEP "Master Timothy, I left your package from Miss Barbara on the kitchen table. Do take care not to damage it unduly this time. "

Ah, Alfred, the rock on which the rest of our dysfunctional quasi-family stands. The quiet, polite Englishman in the midst of our American audacity and noise. I don't know what we'd do without him. The incident to which he refers involved coffee and too little sleep.

BEEP "The following message was sent to the number…"

My head snaps up. That number is one of the numbers I give out to informants, snitches, and thugs who agree to work for me in exchange for not becoming the subject of an impromptu experiment in creative orthopedics.

"…hey man, word on the street is there's money to be made downtown at the Tyrannus building… dunno what they're pushing but it's got everyone all excited-like; thought you might wanna check it out."

Right. I make a note of that; sounds like a theme for tomorrow night's activities.

"You have no more messages."

Awesome. That brings me to sleep time, which is, in my opinion, one of the best times.

But then I get into bed, where I studiously avoid looking at the pictures of my Dad and Steph on the wall. Avoid being reminded of the dad who was killed by a washed-up villan who was trying to make things up to his own son. Avoid being reminded of the teenage mother who never knew her son, my ex-girlfriend, my successor, and the second person who's died trying to prove something to Batman. Avoid being reminded that everyone is fallible, that this job isn't just a game, and that everyone makes mistakes.

Tonight, like every night, I can never avoid those pictures. If I'm lucky, I won't have any nightmares.

Sometimes, I hate this job.


	2. Dazed and Confused

Disclaimer: Once more, not our stuff.

**Chapter 2**

**Dazed and Confused**

I like riding my bike… it's… fast… and cool…and…. windy?

Hmmm…. Where's that book Tim gave me? The themasourous? No… oh yeah, the thesaurus. It has different words and stuff… like a dictionary, only… different… See, a dictionary has meanings of different words and a thesaurus has different words with _the same _meanings…. Which you probably already knew…but I just learned that, so, um, yeah.

I've learned a lot since Tim started teaching me stuff. He's supposed to be my "tutor" (that's what Alfred calls it) but he just shows me… tricks for reading and writing, so… Oh, wait, hold on, I'll check the dictionary!

Oh… there are a couple of meanings and some Latin… hmm… okay so, _A person charged with the instruction and guidance of another_… uh oh…big words. Okay, so I know _instruction_ is teaching, and _guidance_ must have something to do with being a guide (duh), but _charged_? A person can be charged for a crime, what could Tim have done to be charged? Maybe he messed up and his punishment is tutoring me? Now I'm confused… and bored.

So, back to my bike (something very _not_ boring), I like speeding around Bludhaven on it. I like the how I blur past everything and the vroom. I really like the vroom noise.

Tim's car vrooms too. Plus, it's red (very cool). I'd like to drive it around too, but Tim doesn't think that would be a good idea. I asked once and he said no, and then mumbled something about Bruce and "inshurants," (I have to look that one up). That's what he said _out loud _anyway. What most people don't know is that even though I can't read _books_ very well, I _can_ read. I can read faces and shoulders and arms and the rest of the body. I know movement and gestures. I can read what people are saying even if they don't really _say_ it. Before all that stupid mumbling Tim's eyebrow moved up, his lips twitched, he glanced at me and for a minute I was sure he was going to pull over and let me drive, just to see what would happen. But then the eyebrow went down, the lips stiffened, and he stared back out at the road, deciding he didn't want to get fired.

But that was back when he was still kinda afraid of me. He still does it though. The speaking without speaking. I mean, everybody does it. But Tim… oh Tim… what am I going to do about Tim? The things he's been "saying" lately… I… I guess I'm just not used to the attention.

And… I've sort had this… _thing_ for him for a while. Batgirls can't help falling for Robins, I guess. Which _was_ ok before, because I thought nothing would happen and I could ignore my thing. I mean how could Timothy Drake, Robin the all-American boy wonder, fall for Cassandra Cain, the mute ex-assassin? He thought I was insane at first (nearly everyone did) and he even avoided me for a while.

Then of course… there was Stephanie… My first, my only, my _best_ friend… and his girlfriend. As much as I liked and admired Tim, what Stephanie and I had was too much, too _important_ to me to ever let my feelings for him grow into… more. I never even told her about it, my… crush, and I told her everything – well everything I knew how to say out loud. And when she… died… nothing changed. I wanted to stay… I don't know, I guess I wanted to be _loyal_ to her. So I stopped _the thoughts_ as best I could. It felt like even thinking about him _that way_ was wrong, like I was _betraying_ her _memory_. I think Tim did something like that too. But, back then, _I_ was the last thing on Tim's mind.

Tim… I don't even know… there was Stephanie, his dad, and that other girl – all gone… plus all that stuff with Batman and "uncle Eddie" and Penguin's assassins and those weird army people and something about a zombie ex-girlfriend. Tim… Tim had a lot of stuff to deal with. He still does.

I had stuff too. But my stuff was going pretty okay, not perfect, but better than Tim's stuff.

There was just too much stuff.

Now there is less stuff, which is good – Tim gets more sleep.

We hang out more now, because of the lack of stuff. We get burgers and I eat all his fries. I take him to my café and Brenda keeps winking at me (I'm gonna get her some eye-drops. Yeah, I know what she's really saying, but it would be funny). He buys me Rice Krispies and mutters something about a "preemptive strike," and when I finish those I steal his. He takes me to library – he got me my own card but he always comes with me anyway. We make fun of the bad action movies we see. We plot different ways to get Dick and Babs back together when they break up. We visit Stephanie together – he brings red flowers and I bring yellow ones.

We're friends now – real friends.

Tonight we did what Tim calls "the usual" – I took down some bad guys, he took down some bad guys, we took down some bad guys together, and then we drove real fast in his car. He took me here to the station (the _Bat_station!) and it happened again. His eyes said one thing, his smile said another thing, and I felt like I was melting into a weird little happy/confused Cass-puddle. Luckily I realized what was happening before I got too… puddle-like and said goodnight. That snapped him out of his own puddle-likeness and he got all stutter-like and… twitchy I guess, I don't know how to describe it. He just said goodnight and vroomed right out of here.

So now I stare at my bike and think about the speed and the wind. I wonder if I should vroom right after him or vroom around Blüdhaven and take down more bad guys or just vroom right off a cliff…

I'm tired. I'll vroom off a cliff tomorrow.

I listen to a message from an informant, make a note to check out the lead tomorrow, and shut down the station for the night. Then I head up my pole to the apartment, throw my bat-gear into a hamper (Alfred's happy somewhere), and take a quick shower. I like baths better, but it's late and I don't feel like waiting for the water to fill all the way up. Hmmm, my shampoo is almost empty. I'll have to use Tim's shower next time – the bottle there is full.

Shower done now, feel a little more normal, now just need to check my messages.

BEEP

"Cassie! It's Dinah. Girl, I've been Gotham for week already and I _still _have not seen my favorite pointy-eared super-girl! What is up with that, huh? You need to get out of that smelly little town and come up and see me before the boss lady sends me off to South America or Eastern Europe or Kansas or god knows where. We need to go shopping and talk about Timmy-boy and get some nachos and rate cute guys that we walk past. Call me. Bye!"

Black Canary needs more vacations.

BEEP

"Cass, its Barbara, have you been talking to Dick? Because I swear whatever he's told you isn't true. The man likes to make up things; honestly he's like a two year old. Anyway, Dinah's been ranting about something to do with Kansas and nachos for about a week now. She may drag you off someplace random later, just a warning. We'll do something soon? I'll call you tomorrow."

Babs needs more vacations too. She and Dick just need to get married already. They'd be much more relaxed…or maybe not.

BEEP

"Cassandra. Bruce. Check your mail. Your _other_ mail."

Batman doesn't know what a vacation is.

BEEP

"Miss Cassandra, it is Alfred Pennyworth. Your freshly cleaned and folded laundry is atop your dryer awaiting your arrival. I will once again remind you to put the clothing _into_ their drawers and not_ strewn _about the apartment. I restocked your refrigerator while I was in today and I believe you will find that a variety of nutritious provisions from each food group are much more satisfying then a dozen cans of 'Spaghetti-O's' and a half empty bottle of Pepsi-Cola. I will also remind you that the family dinner is, as usual, promptly at seven Sunday evening and your attendance is expected. Have a lovely evening Miss."

If Alfred would just _try_ Spaghetti-O's he'd understand where I was coming from… Or he'd ban me from the canned goods aisle forever…

BEEP

"Yo, bg this is Gar Logan, you know, _bb?_ Now I know you aren't part of the, uh, 'group' per se, but seeing as you're Tim's pal, I'm gonna make an exception and let you in on a little secret. Tim will explain the major details, but the gist is that there's going to be a _major_ shindig at my place. BYOB! Talk to Tim. Adios."

Was that… Beast Boy? How did _he_ get my number? Shindig? And what the hell is BYOB?

Whatever, I'm tired – need sleep.

'Cept, the thing is _now _I can't sleep. Darn Tim and his mixed messages. I should be snoozing right now. I have a _very_ comfortable mattress and Alfred must have washed the sheets too cause they smell really nice. Stupid Tim. Stupid Alfred.

It's his fault too. this whole mess, Alfred caused all of it.

It was, like, two weeks ago, right before one of Batman's parties– no, wait, that's wrong. Batman doesn't have parties, Bruce Wayne does. Although, Batman in a party-hat would be funny. Anyway, the party was for Wayne Industries and it was at some fancy hotel, but the dress Alfred and I had picked out was at the manor. So I got ready there and Tim was going to pick me up. I'm not sure why I was supposed to be at the party, I mean Tim is in charge of a Blüdhaven part of Wayne Industries so he had to, but Batman said I had to come too. I think Alfred put him up to it (stupid Alfred). Well, Tim got to the manor early (very Tim-like), so he was waiting in the "sitting room" when I was finally ready to go.

Alfred (stupidly) saw me first, "Ah, Miss Cassandra, you join us at last, and I see our waiting on you was not in vain."

Tim turned and – well, he – he just kinda – his mouth fell open. Not that I could blame him, I mean it was a really nice dress – I looked good… really good. But it's not like Tim had never seen me dressed up before, Wayne Industries has a lot of parties. And Tim usually recovers pretty quickly when he sees me in a dress… but, Alfred… stupid… English… butler-man.

"Does Miss Cassandra not look _stunning_ in her new evening dress, Master Timothy? We thought light blue might be a refreshing change from all that _black_."

I'm not the only one who forgets how to talk sometimes. Tim forgot how to talk. He tried to remember, but all he could manage was a couple of cleared throat noises, some blinking, and a head cocked to the side.

It all came back to him though, after a little while, "uh, yeah, Alfred, yeah, um, stunning, yeah. You look – well – I mean –uh… you look really nice Cass, really… perfect…"

I forgot too…but Alfred can read some body language, so he coughed politely.

"Thank you Tim," it wasn't very loud, but Alfred seemed happy about it.

"Well then, we must be on our way if we are to arrive somewhat on schedule. I shall drive around the car. Master Timothy, I trust you will be able to fetch Miss Cassandra's coat for her and-"

"I can do it Alfr-"

"Excellent, _Master Timothy_, I shall meet the both of you out front then." Oh well. Can't blame me for trying.

I didn't know Alfred could move so fast… stupid fast Alfred.

Tim's stuttering stopped soon after that, he's pretty quick on his feet. But, even though he could speak normally, for the rest of the night he just acted… weird.

The ride to party was silent. Tim stared down at his shoes the whole time. I could tell he was concentrating on something; he had the look he gets when he's trying to figure out a really tricky case or one of his crossword puzzles.

Distracted-Tim is not fun at parties, I had to act.

"You okay?"

"What?" he looked startled.

"You're all sweaty," he was kinda sweaty.

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Is the car too warm for your liking Master Timothy?" I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure Alfred was teasing him.

"I'm fine Alfred, really. I was just, uh, thinking about a case."

"Master Timothy, if you pardon me for saying so, it seems quite rude to be focused on work when one has such a charming companion to converse with." What's that phrase about the dead horses?

"It's fine Alfred," I interrupted, "but, we _do _need to go over the plan Tim."

"The plan?"

"Yeah, you know, Dick and Babs in a closet. The cocktail weenies."

Dick and Babs were mad at each other again – we needed to get them away from the rest of the party, lock them in a closet, eat all the cocktail weenies, and find a way to avoid Bruce forcing us to mingle. The weenies were my favorite part of the plan.

"Oh, right, that plan."

Well, several awkward moments, two hostile vigilantes in a closet, and an entire plate of weenies later Bruce was heading our way.

"Cassandra, Tim – Barbara and Dick have gone awol. I need you to–"

"Wanna dance?" Tim had spun towards me, completely ignoring Bruce.

"What?" dancing had not been part of the plan. We were supposed to volunteer to look for them, then sneak to the kitchen and get more weenies and maybe some shrimp cocktail.

"What?" Bruce wasn't used to being completely ignored.

"Dance with me Cass. Please," his voice was very… whispery… and his eyes were just so _blue_, and, for some reason, the whole moment seemed important.

"Okay," he smiled. I smiled. Bruce looked confused.

The first dance was fast and fun. Lots of twirling. I feel like Bruce couldn't have taught him those moves. Bruce doesn't know how to have fun… except when Catwoman's around… I think she forces him.

For me, dancing is easy – all I have to do is watch other people do it, it's like reading an instruction manual.

The next dance though, didn't have much twirling. It was slow, and long… really long. And the thing about slow songs, is that the two people dancing have to be close to one another. I don't think Tim and I have ever been that close before – save for those times I had to tackle him to the ground to avoid gunshots, or when I pinned him in sparing sessions, or whenever one of us had to sew up a wound… okay so maybe we're that close on a regular basis… but never for that long.

Still it was nice, slow dancing with Tim.

When the song finished we saw that Babs and Dick had somehow managed to escape. The partly was almost over, and Bruce could bug them about mingling – that is, if they ever stopped making out… don't know what it is, but the closet gets them every time.

"I shall have to have a talk with Master Richard and Miss Barbara about proper etiquette in social situations. Honestly, at their age they should have a little more reserve concerning closets and public displays of affection. This is the _fifth _time that such an outrageous exhibit of impropriety has occurred at one of Master Bruce's social gatherings."

"You love it Alfred," Tim and I shared a secret smirk in the back seat of the Bentley. We make good plans.

Alfred harrumphed, but I knew he would smile to himself later.

"Ah, here we are Miss Cassandra," Alfred said as he parked the car.

He opened my door for me (something he insists is "required of all gentlemen's gentlemen") and held out his hand, saying "condemned home sweet home,"

"Graffiti adds character!"

"I'm sure it does Miss, have a good night,"

"Goodnight Alfred, Goodnight Tim,"

"Goodnight Cass," his voice sounded like it did tonight… nervous, tense, a little dazed, yet still…hopeful…and confused.

And that's the way it's been between us since then: confusing. I keep going over the whole night, trying to make sense of something, anything. All I have are questions. Has Tim been like this for a while, and I just never noticed it until then? What am I going to do? Should I talk to him about it? About what? Am I imagining all of this? What is going on? Maybe I could talk to Babs… but then she would tell Dick and he would talk to Tim…

I'm not very experienced in this sort of thing. It figures that my father would fiercely train me my whole life to make sure I have no weaknesses and now… I avoid gunshots just by glancing at the shooter, take out fifty thugs without breaking a sweat, learn Shaolin Kempo from a master in two seconds... but Tim Drake looks at me like Dick Grayson looks at Barbara Gordon… and I'm a puddle.

It's so… so… ugh… I don't even know how to describe…. How do I… Tim is…. Damn it…

There aren't enough words in the thesaurus.


	3. A Day in the Life

**Chapter 3**

**A Day in the Life**

Waking up, for me, in some ways, is much like life in general. As that famous actor in that famous movie put it, it's like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. Sometimes, it's violent and rude, like when an emergency happens and Oracle lights off the sirens in my room (mine and the rest of the family's…). Other times, it's scary and covert, and with a splitting headache, all signs that I've gotten in over my head and someone's captured me. Thankfully, that doesn't happen too often (yeah, unlike Dick, I'm not "Robin, The Boy Hostage." Damn straight). This morning, however, is fairly peaceful. I don't usually sleep too heavily, but I still find waking up a long and grueling experience in general. Caffeine helps, though I find coffee a bit too strong, sometimes. I share with Cass a certain weakness for a good cup of tea, although I personally prefer an English tea like Earl Grey (I blame Alfred), and Cass likes Assam (do I have to always think of her?). Whatever gets you going, I guess (More double meanings! Damned subconscious).

I wake up this morning to my usual alarm, and heave myself out of bed. I stretch a bit, feeling the muscles I exerted last night. Frequently my arms ache, as a good deal of what I do is swing from building to building. However, all parts of my body usually get a good workout, and so my various aches and pains are usually spread out pretty evenly. Luckily, no bruises this morning. No, that's not luck. It's skill. I've worked too hard to get where I am to shortchange myself there. At my level of training, luck very rarely enters into the equation. When it does, it's probably because I'm in over my head.

Anyway, I've got to get moving in time for my _other_ job. I work my way to the kitchen and check the drawer to discover that in fact, Cass has not yet raided this week's supply of Rice Crispies and that I still have a full box of teabags. Thank God. I throw some water in the kettle and pour myself a bowl of cereal. It isn't Alfred's cooking for breakfast, but it certainly does the trick. I eat my breakfast in relative silence, getting my tea when the kettle screams. I finish my Rice Crispies and clean up. Carrying the remainder of my tea with me, I head back to my room, and a couple of minutes later, I'm dressed and ready for the rigors of work in downtown Blüdhaven.

My trip to work takes me about 10 minutes walking. It's not worth the effort to drive (with what I call my Q-Car—looks normal but has some "not-for-retail-sale" goodies under the skin) and actually find a parking spot. The city is something else during daylight hours. Not cleaner, or better smelling… but it has more life. People aren't afraid to go outdoors. Children play stickball in abandoned parking lots. Runners go for their morning jogs. Workers run for the bus. Executives (what few there are in this forsaken city) hail cabs. Markets are loud, full of storekeepers hawking their wares and bargain-hunters haggling. There's none of the creeping fear and wariness that the place has at night. Of course, there are places one still doesn't go to during the day, but most people have no reason to be in those places anyway. It's amazing what a difference a little light makes.

Eight blocks later, I walk up the steps of an old stone building, the ninth floor of which is occupied by the Drake Organization, a nonprofit that arranges philanthropic functions for what elite exist in Blüdhaven and the surrounding suburbs. Mostly the 'burbs, because those people who have money and are drawn to city life on this coast tend to gravitate more towards Gotham, Metropolis, and New York. It's frequently said that Blüdhaven is a giant support mechanism for those cities; this is where they put all the dirty things that people don't want to live next to. I think that we have more power plants per capita here than anywhere else in the country.

As I step out of the elevator, I'm greeted by the sight of a large open office where the operations staff of the Drake Organization work. It's open for easy communication between the various staff members who frequently need to coordinate several events at once. It reminds me vaguely of the Major Crimes Unit of the GCPD, with all the ringing phones, shouting people, and paperwork stacked on desks.

"Good morning, Mr. Drake."

"Morning, Allie. What've we got today?"

"The usual. A 10k for breast cancer at Lawndale Hospital, charity concert out in Bonham, disaster relief fund ball up at Wayne manor. A few odds and ends here and there, and we're getting the Perry account in order, but that's about it.

"Need me for anything?"

"Just the usual bunch o' papers to sign. Oh, and if you could call Mr. Wayne about his function, that'd be great. Everything's good to go, but it never hurts to talk to the man in charge, and I figured since you knew him…" Allie pauses significantly, and then examines my face for a moment. "Say, Mr. Drake, you have a rough night?"

I probably have bags under my eyes again. This happens when I toss and turn for two hours thinking about Cass and Dad and Steph and Bruce and God knows what or who else. Should have put makeup on those, but wasn't thinking too hard this morning.

"Oh, there was just a special on last night I couldn't miss. It was worth the lost sleep. I'll be fine. Assuming the hot water heater still works."

"Mr. Drake, if anything works perfectly around here, it's that and the coffee machine. I think we'd all go catatonic if it didn't."

"Yeah. Well, I'll take those and sign 'em for you. I'll be in my office if you need me."

"Sure thing, boss."

Heh. Boss. Mr. Drake. I think it's kind of funny when people refer to me that way. I always wonder what it is that makes them think I have any more education or professional experience than them. Maybe it's the fact that I'm in charge here in the first place? Do my nightly activities make me look that much older? I mean, I'm only 19, after all.

I walk into my office, steaming cup of tea in hand, and lean back in the leather armchair. Switching on my computer, I turn to the small stack of papers I've just been handed. In truth, I don't actually do that much work for my namesake corporate entity. I sign papers, and I check out all of our projects to ensure their legitimacy and organization, but beyond that, the staff back in the outer room does all the real work. They're great, dedicated, selfless people, especially Allie, who's technically my second in command but who really runs the place. She is to me what Lucius Fox is to Bruce. She really gets the job done around here.

In my office, I spend most of my time working on cases for my other job, or teleconferencing with professors, getting credit for my degrees. Bruce and Babs pick these people, trying to ensure that I'm well educated and that if I were ever to get a normal job that I'd be well prepared. They insist on my actually taking courses, rather than just giving me honorary degrees, because they think I should get a feel for what every other college sophomore is going through right now. Although, I probably already qualify for an MS in Criminal Justice and Forensics. Even with the courses, my life is nothing like an undergraduate's anyway. I suppose they're probably right, but sometimes I feel like I'm wasting my time when I could be working on more pressing issues, like helping recapture the psychopath of the month. As much as he hates to admit it, Batman needs all the help he can get. The Psycho-to-Vigilante ratio is simply too high around here. If you ask me, the mentor has reached the point at which he can't teach his students any more than he has without the aid of that most harsh instructor, experience. He doesn't need to know that I think that, though.

I also do a little teaching of my own, lately. My sole student is a certain Cassandra Cain, who sorely needs work in the area of reading and writing. I give her classes when we're both off from work; usually that's in the early afternoon, before we go out on patrol, after Cass gets out of work. She works as a sensei at a local mixed martial arts dojo, a job she took after Babs suggested it to her. It's probably the ideal day job for her; she does something she enjoys and helps others at the same time. And for that matter, her students are probably some of the safest civilians in the city, if they're getting instruction from _her_. Hell, Batman even has considered her place as a possible recruiting office in that contingency plan of his where he needs to raise an army.

As for English reading and writing, Cass really does try. It's hard for her, but I've got her reading children's novels now. It's great seeing her face light up when she can figure out what's going on in a story without having to ask me or spend half an hour looking up words in a dictionary. To think there was a time when Dr. Seuss was a headache. I guess everyone's got to start somewhere.

Anyway, that lesson's not till this afternoon, and I don't have any classes today. I work on legitimate paperwork for the organization for about 45 minutes, and then it's time to work on cases. Making sure my door's shut, I feel around for a moment under my desk and put my finger on the scanner concealed there. The normal desktop of my computer flickers for a moment and it boots into Oracle's specially designed operating system (OS), which is hooked into her network and into the parts of the Batcave network that are accessible from it. Batman, ever paranoid—and rightfully so, especially if those rumors of an Oracle-style character working as a mercenary are true—keeps certain things that he wants to keep absolutely secure in an electromagnetically (EM) shielded room in the Batcave that has no connections, hardwired or otherwise, to the outside world. If you wanted to get a file from those computers, you'd have to physically carry a storage device in there, transfer the files, and walk out. The hard drive that contains this operating system, like the rest of the computer, is EM shielded, and it also does not register with the normal OS on the computer. If you were to access it over the internet, there'd be no actual indication that there was a second hard drive to begin with. Hitting the fingerprint scanner also makes the room go slightly darker as the window polarizes (and so becomes opaque on the outside) and activates a relatively weak jammer that transmits on most radio and cellphone frequencies over a space slightly larger than my office (And the staff wonders why they get better reception the further they get from this side of the building). The small thermite bomb that's planted in the computer's case to fry it in case of theft is also disarmed by my fingerprint. Finally, a white noise generator turns on whenever the door's closed to ensure any bugs that aren't affected by all the other security measures can't hear anything. It's probably the third most secure room in the city, after the Nest and the Station.

This is because, of course, anyone who saw what goes on my screen now would have a pretty good idea of what I did in my free time and who I did it with. I bring up the files for the case I've been working on lately, the one I got the tip on last night. The Tyrannus building, huh? I see what public information there is on it. Downtown, office building, used to be a newspaper office. Large open spaces below the first two floors. Owned by one Tyrannus Enterprises. Hmm. Well, interesting, but definitely nothing good to go on. I bring up our messaging program. It's basically glorified AIM.

R: morning O

R: no I haven't talked to N

O: you know me too well

O: what can I do for you?

R: I've got a case and there's nothing good on the internet

O: shoot

R: see what you can get me on Tyrannus Enterprises, and specifically what it does with its downtown office. plans would be nice too. I want to pay it a visit later

O: sure. something from a tip?

R: yeah

O: OK first look nothing special, sending you the plans from town hall now.

O: huh.

R: what?

O: this is a pretty tough server for a commercial rig. nothing I can't handle of course but this might take some time- damn

O: ok, this is gonna take at least half a day.

R: wow. sounds like a red flag in and of itself

O: I'd say

R: well, thanks for the plans

O: I'll have the rest of that stuff for you when you get back from patrol

R: OK

Well that's a surprise. Even governments don't usually give Babs this hard a time. Someone is either very paranoid, hiding something, or, as is frequently the case, both. Definitely worth a look tonight—so I start planning my infiltration using the available plans. Looking them over, it appears there are several unmarked rooms, on both the top floor and in the basement. Either would fit as a possible place to hide files. Also, I decide to make a round of the President's office, and the marked server rooms on the map. Ok, entry. One of the problems with staging an infiltration, especially when you don't want the owners of the building knowing they've had a visitor, is not tripping the security system. Babs should be able to deliver me its technical details… and there they are, courtesy of email. Ok. Cameras everywhere… lasers in the lobby, magnetic locks on important doors. Backup generator in the basement. Weaknesses… Hmm. What's the size on those air vents? Yes, I know it's a Hollywood cliché, but I don't think there's any sensors on them…probably because no one actually expects it because it _is_ a Hollywood cliché. Hmm. I can fit, at least to the server rooms. Not offices. So I still need a way to disable maglocks. I could pull the power and disable the backup generators, but that requires a trip to the generator room, which is out of the way, and writing a hacking program for the power grid. Plus, it's more likely someone will notice if the power goes down, and it might activate battery powered systems. I could blow the locks out of the doors… or the doors out of the frames… but that's pretty obvious. Just hack the system and open the doors? Takes too much time. Maybe there's something in the Batcave inventory? Hmm. EM Pulse generator would fry all the nearby electronics, raise suspicion. Explosive door charges are too obvious. Lock picks useless against maglocks. Windows are alarmed, and broken glass is obvious. Lasers leave burns. So does acid. Sigh. I toy with calling the master… well, mistress, the one person I know who can break in anywhere undetected—Catwoman. Then I imagine the conversation… yeah, I can figure this one out myself, I think. No need to be laughed at by the woman who can woo Batman. Especially not this early in the day.

What else does Batman have in this inventory? Maybe something I can phase through a wall with? Yeah right. Like he'd let me use it anyway. Hey, this looks promising. A device that can read and alter electric currents through solid objects… like walls… If I could locate the wires leading to the lock then I could probably kill the power. Ok, we're in business. A quick check of guard schedules, and a computer order to the Batcave computer to deliver my extra equipment to the Nest and I'm mostly set for tonight. I just have to program the equipment I need.

Which, of course, takes all morning, as I realize that Batman never wrote any interface software for it. He apparently has never used it in the field, either, which is only vaguely surprising. Batman has a habit of being prepared for any contingency, and so he has a huge stockpile of equipment that may or may not ever be used. If he can think of a situation in which a piece of specialized equipment might be needed, he'll go off and design it or scour WayneTech's annals to see if it's ever been created, and then build or acquire a copy. Some of the stuff, however, is a bit farfetched. What's the honest likelihood that he'll ever need a set of inflatable decoys shaped like members of the Justice League? Or a corkscrew with a bat symbol on it (he doesn't even drink)? However, if anyone sticks to "better safe than sorry," it's Batman.

Anyway, I'm a fairly decent programmer, and this is a simple enough device, made from off the shelf parts. After writing the raw code, borrowing liberally from existing software written for similar devices in Batman's arsenal, it takes me about another hour to debug and compile a finished version. Downloading that onto a card I can plug into the machine, I note the time on my desk clock and realize it's almost time to meet Cass for lunch and then lessons. Good timing. I save my work and then thumb the scanner under my desk again, which reboots the system back into the Drake Organization OS and deactivates the extra security measures. Taking my now-empty tea mug with me, I gather up my files and go out into the main office, returning files to the desks that they go to and putting my mug back in the kitchenette. I let the staff know that I'm going out and then hit the elevator.

Cass's dojo, known officially as Wu Sun Tzu's Modern Fighting Temple, is located across town from my apartment, in what serves more or less as Blüdhaven's Chinatown. I walk a block from the Drake Organization and get on the subway for a 10 minute ride to get there, since again, it's not really worth using a car if I'm already right next to the station. I exit the subway on the southeast corner of 15th and Vine, and walk two blocks and take a left. A block from the dojo, the warm, fresh scent of baking fills my nostrils, and searching unconsciously for the source, I notice a local bakery. I've forgotten that was there. Maybe I should get something… yes, that would work handsomely. I spend a good minute and thirty seconds inside, and emerge with a bag of cupcakes in hand. Cass _loves _cupcakes. I don't mind them either, but they're really for her. Was that just a random act of kindness, from Tim Drake, the estranged loner? She really must be affecting me. Wow. _Anyway…_

I reach the dojo several seconds later. The storefront is fairly generic, with a typical, bright red, crowded city awning advertising "the most effective personal self-defense styles on Earth," "private and group lessons available," and "sparring club meets every Wednesday," in big white letters. Various pictures of some of the events the dojo has participated in and books on the many different styles taught there line the front windows.

I step inside, and much to my surprise, I am immediately confronted by what first registers in my mind as an aging flower child. A woman who looks like she's in her fifties with actual flowers in her hair, a long, flowing skirt, and a sweater that looks home-knit approaches me, hands me a small burlap sack of a vaguely fragrant substance, and comments, in an ethereal voice:

"My dear Timothy, my inner eye shows me that your soul is troubled and in need of soothing. Here, take these, and be healed. Have a wonderful day in Mother Nature's great Earth."

"Uh… Thanks."

She walks out, a slight wispiness in her step, and I mumble a halfhearted goodbye at her. I examine the bag she thrust at me, and investigation confirms my suspicion: herbal tea, in the raw leaves. I think I remember seeing her here before—she comes here for exercise and meditation. Thinks that practicing martial arts will improve her Chi, and she came so often that eventually they gave her a job teaching yoga, because the senseis felt bad that they were taking all her money. She does all the exercises but flat out refuses to spar, saying that mother earth would never approve of violence. I think that her name is Pan or Demeter or Artemis or some other goddess name. Cass thinks she's cute, and always talks about her the way you would a pet. I think she's obnoxious, but I'm too polite to say it. Cass probably read this off me, but probably thinks that's cute too.

Regaining my composure, I take off my shoes and walk into the area with the mats on the floor. I see Cass toweling herself off in the corner near her gym bag as her students walk out. Damn she's attractive. OK, I admit it, I really find her beautiful. Even in workout clothes, I sometimes find it difficult not to stare. She doesn't notice me yet (or at least, doesn't appear to) and so I wait politely for the trainees to leave, and as soon as the last one is out, I silently pull a cupcake out of my bag, wind up, and use my best batarang throw to send it soaring towards the back of Cass's head. As the pastry-turned-projectile leaves my hand, I yell out as fast as I can,

"Cassthinkfast!"

I watch, almost in slow motion, as the tasty treat comes closer and closer to that shiny black hair, and suddenly, almost in a blur, Cass shifts left, sticks her hand out, snatches the cupcake out of midair, whips around, and stands in a fighting stance, poised to return the offending missile to whatever heinous offender had launched it. I swear her reaction time is incredible. At least, it is for fighting. It takes her a moment to realize that she's not holding a rock, throwing star, knife, hand grenade, or poison dart, but in fact a yellow cupcake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles, and upon this epiphany, her face bursts into smile, turning from deadly calm and serious to playful in an instant.

"YAY! CUPCAKE!" She squeals, and immediately begins consuming her cupcake, barely getting the paper off in time to get the pieces in her mouth.

"You're welcome, Cass."

"Thanks Tim! I love cupcakes!"

"I know." At that moment, my hair kind of pricks on the back of my neck, and my mind registers a slight noise that my conscious brain doesn't recognize…My subconscious takes over and nearly on instinct I duck low and catch a flying wooden pole as it whizzes by the space where my temple was just milliseconds ago. It's moving fast enough that I can use it's momentum to spin myself around to face my assailant and at the same time remove his weapon from his hands, which I continue to whip around my own back and place firmly but not roughly at his throat with my other hand. It's at this moment that _I_ realize who _my_ assailant is.

"Mr. Wu, my apologies, I reacted without thinking." I bow respectfully to the owner and master sensei of this establishment, and also Cass's boss, one Mr. Wu Sun Tzu. Rising, I hold his staff up in front of me for him to take back.

"Hah hah hah hah! Very good! You react faster! Good technique."

"Thank you, Mr. Wu."

"Yes, you very good, one of best American fighters! You want job?"

"Ah… no, no Mr. Wu. Not right now. I'm… too busy, sir."

"Aww, too bad. Too bad. Cassandra, you hold on to this one. He good man. Tell him to work with us. Yes! Very good man. Would make good sensei at fighting temple! You hold onto him. You too, Mr. Timothy, you hold onto her. You hold tight! Hah hah hah hah hah!"

Mr. Wu, looking as though he thoroughly enjoyed embarrassing the both of us, flicks his long, white beard, takes his staff back, laughs raucously again, and walks back to his office. The man is like a character from a Kung Fu movie that decided one day to walk off the TV screen and start a business. Pure genius at fighting—I never consciously see or hear him coming—but hell of a personality. Cass thinks he's cute, too. In a psychotic little old man sort of way.

The both of us recovering from our moment of awkwardness from being all but told to go out and get married by an old Chinese man, Cass smiles and again thanks me for the cupcake, and finishes up gathering her things and goes into the back room to put them in her locker, since she'll come back here after our lesson to work the late afternoon hours. I lean against the railing on the wall and idly look at the posters adorning the opposite wall. Despite his age and traditional appearance, Mr. Wu is definitely up to speed and very modern in the fighting style he teaches; it is both graceful and beautiful, but also swift, simple, and brutally effective. It is a combination of the most useful and powerful moves from several different martial arts. Cass, in many ways, is the perfect teacher; she is more than capable of switching styles in mid fight and she also knows better than anyone how each move should look and feel.

Of course, no sooner do I lean comfortably on the rail and begin to relax, when Cass's coworker approaches me. Jack Heller works as Mr. Wu's accountant and bookkeeper but for some reason he thinks because he works at a dojo that he is by default a master martial artist. He's really obnoxious.

"Hey man, are you here for lessons? You look like you could use some, kid!"

"Mr. Heller, I will tell you again: I need no further instruction in martial arts."

"Oh yeah? Think you're so tough? Think you can take on…_the master_?"

"Mr. Wu?"

"No, not that old man, me, you idiot!"

"Are you trying to prove something here?"

"You don't think you can do it, don't you. You're scared."

"As always, I'll have to…"

As I'm halfway to saying the word "decline", I notice Cass has returned from the locker room and rolls her eyes at the situation she once again sees playing out in front of her. Then, she gets one of those mischievous looks, and then gestures for me to humor him. I give her a look that says "Are you sure?", to which she nods. Well, if she says so…

"…I'll… Accept."

"You... What?"

"I accept. I'll spar with you. Does now work for you?" He looks perplexed, but recovers quickly.

"Uhhh… sure. OK. Yeah, let's do it! Bring it on."

"As you wish."

I bow slowly at him, my eyes glued to his and my face impassive, and then assume a relaxed ready stance. He takes a short bow and the makes a show of assuming a complicated, and in my experience, useless, fighting stance. I wait. After a few moments, he realizes that I'm not going to make the first move, and showing a complete lack of technique, yells and charges straight at me. I hold my stance until he's just within arm's reach, and then make my move. I shift left, but hold my right leg out at the same time, and grasping his wrist with my right hand, I place my left hand in the small of his back and push. Tripping over my leg and accelerated by my hand, Heller's face becomes one with the mat with a satisfying thud. I use his right wrist to pull his arm up behind his back. I then kneel on his back and apply pressure.

"OW OW OW STOP OW STOP!"

Smirking, I look up at Cass. She's doing all she can to keep from bursting into laughter.

"So, are you going to leave me alone from now on?" I say nonchalantly.

"Agh yes, yes, let me go!"

"Cass too?"

"YES! Please, my arm!

"You promise?"

"YES! ANYTHING!"

"Good. I'll hold you to it."

I ease off the pressure and stand up, and then, just for the irony, I bow to him. Whimpering in pain, he makes a half-hearted attempt at returning the bow and stumbles off to his office, whining. I hear Mr. Wu laughing in his office on the other side of the one-way glass. Cass appears to have caught a bad case of the giggles. I think I've had enough surprises in this place for one day. I motion for the door, and we exit to the street.

A brisk, silent walk later (although it's one of those comfortable silences, thankfully, not one of those horrible awkward ones) we arrive at a local deli-restaurant that I've become quite a fan of. Some of the best pastrami I've ever tasted. We take our seats, and I order my usual pastrami-and-mustard sandwich and a cream soda, and Cass orders a bologna, pickle, and cheese sandwich with an iced tea. Yeah, I know. She's weird like that.

Now there's another silence, but this one, for some reason, _is_ awkward. Thinking on my feet (well, I'm actually sitting down, but you get the idea), I say,

"Does Mr. Wu attack everyone who comes into the temple?"

"No, just you."

"Oh. Okay then...why me?"

"He likes you,"

"Oh... that's cool"

"Yeah." I see that got us somewhere. Sigh. Desperate, I have a sudden burst of inspiration.

"Dick and Babs are at it again,"

"I know, got weird message!"

"Time to find some new closets?"

"Those two always come out of closets happy,"

I can't help but burst into laughter at that connotation. Cass looks puzzled. Seeing the expression on her face, I laugh again. It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that she really doesn't get it, and so I stifle my laughter.

"What? What's so funny?"

I try to think of how to explain this. "Ok, Cass, 'Coming out of the closet' is a figure of speech for…well…uh… you know the girls with the orange hair who hang out at your coffee shop?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, they're out of the closet. If no one knew that they…um, 'liked' each other, then they still would be in the closet."

"Oh. That explains…huh. Well anyway, since Dick and Babs aren't gay, that shouldn't be a problem."

I sigh audibly and shake my head at Cass's total lack of subtlety. The food comes just then and, distracted from talks of vigilante romance and lesbians, we enjoy our meal.

Fifteen minutes and one hell of a pastrami sandwich later, I lean back, satisfied. It's about time for "class."

"Do you have your books, Cass?"

"Yep."

She takes decent sized pile of books out of her bag. Included are a dictionary, thesaurus, a grammatical rule book, and a couple of novels that I've been helping her get through, in various genres. I haven't formally tested her to see what her actual reading level is, partially because I don't really feel like stealing one of those tests from the local public school system (it needs all the help it can get), and partially because it reminds me of my days in school (ugh,is all I have to say about that). The best estimate I could give would be that she's reading books that I first read when I was in sixth grade. Not bad, considering that she used to be an illiterate mute. Anyway, first up are the exercises I asked her to do from the grammar book. Remembering my own experiences in school, I never order Cass to do anything, and never get angry if she doesn't complete part of an exercise. I know what her schedule is like, after all. I think she appreciates it; very rarely does she not finish her "homework" and she reads as much as she can.

I look over her work and correct her mistakes, explaining as we go along what she did and what she should have done. Cass takes to our lessons with the same fierce determination with which she does everything else. Her level of improvement is astounding, and in maybe a year she'll need a better teacher than me.

I give her next week's workbook pages, and then we turn to Cass's favorite part of our lessons. Cass loves reading fiction, especially action books. Recently, we've been reading from that series of books about that English boy wizard; his name eludes me at the moment. I motion to Cass to turn to the page where we left off, and she excitedly launches into the scene where the boy is in a graveyard and fights the dark wizard who killed his parents. Cass's face lights up at the boy's successes and it falls at his losses; I can see that she's putting herself in his shoes. I know few people who deriveas much enjoyment from reading as Cass does. I think part of it is that it makes her so happy to be succeeding at something which she has tried so hard at for so long. I keep my contributions minimal, only interjecting when Cass sees a word she's unfamiliar with or when her pronunciation is off. That's less and less lately.

I also enjoy our reading sessions, though not necessarily because I love the boy wizard books (they're alright) or because I like teaching (meh—its okay, nothing special), but because it gives me a chance to not be Robin the Teen Wonder or Tim Drake the CEO of an important organization, but just a guy reading with a girl, and a girl who's not Batgirl or Cassandra Cain the martial arts badass, but just a cute asian girl who likes to read. For a while, we're just normal people. I wouldn't give up the life I lead at night for anything (I'd get bored and feel guilty) and Cass loves her after-dark work, but I think we both enjoy the chance to relax in a local deli and enjoy a good book. It's also good just to spend time with her and be near her for a while. I feel comfortable doing this with her; I think she does too.

Cass is on a roll today, and so by the time my watch alarm chimes, we've torn through that chapter and the next. Cass looks sad to have to stop.

"I know, Cass, I want to keep going, too, but you know what time it is."

She sighs. "Yeah. See you tonight?"

"Dunno. I have a special job tonight, might take a while. You?"

"Me too." Cass sighs again. I may have let my own sigh out there. I like working with Cass, too. Always something exciting going on, and watching her fight is better than an action movie.

Resigned to our fates, we clean up her books and get up, heading out to the door. After we walk back to her Dojo, we part after another one of those awkward silences. I hate them, but it's like I'm always caught unawares, never knowing quite what to say. Lost in though about Cass and reading and fighting and smiles and wizards and everything and nothing and all at once, I find myself back at the nest without really having noticed the trip. I check my watch: time to get ready for tonight.

As tonight is an infiltration and not my regular patrol, my load out is a little different than usual. First comes my thin long underwear, which keeps me from getting chilled on cold nights and on warm nights can circulate water through small tubes to keep me cool. It also acts as a wetsuit if it is immersed, keeping me warm in the case of a swim. Then the green, stretchy under-layer of my uniform, made of a combination of Nomex and spandex, for protection against flame, and containing an embedded net of thin copper wires which acts as a faraday cage and protects me from electric shocks, as certain villains have discovered much to their chagrin. Each of these layers comes with gloves and socks, as well. Next comes my main tunic; this is a heavy vest which is made of Kevlar in multiple weaves to stop bullets, blades, and dull the impact of blunt objects. Also included is a codpiece that is Kevlar, composite and steel reinforced, for protecting every man's weakest point. Sewn into the tunic are a number of sensors which detect my vital signs and transmit a signal to other members of the bat-family if my vital signs become affected due to injury, or if the sensors stop functioning for whatever reason.

I then put on my boots, and gloves, which both contain as many gadgets as my whole car mounts, including several devices designed for helping me escape captivity, like lock picks, razor saws, and in my gloves, a capsule of corrosive acid and a laser. The gloves have reinforced joints and have metal inserts underneath the fist, and a high grip weave of rubber and Kevlar on the palms, to grip deceleration lines with. The boots are steel-toed-and soled, flexible enough for martial arts, and custom-fitted for my feet. Thinking about my plans for tonight, I then put on a harness for rappelling and knee and elbow pads.

Next up is my all-important utility belt. Although there are other useful things scattered about my person, I store the majority of my gear here, which is why the newest edition of the belt requires a spoken password to unlatch, as any enemy who could remove it from me would be putting me at a major disadvantage. This belt comes loaded with my own bird-shaped batarangs, more lock picks, flashbang grenades, smoke grenades, sticky grenades, tear gas and knockout gas grenades, extra lines for my grappling hook launcher, my grappling hook launcher itself, a long knife hidden in the back in the case that I meet an enemy who requires more than a beating to be put down, a flashlight, extra batteries, flares, a first aid kit, highly condensed food with enough nutrients to keep you going for a week, ultrasound emitters (they attract bats and repel certain other animals like dogs, making for good distractions), a re-breathing apparatus with enough air for 30 minutes of survival underwater or protection from noxious gases, a highly compressed set of civilian clothes (a t-shirt and pants, vacuum packed) and extra slots for whatever else I need. There's even a kryptonite ring in the buckle, in case one of the kryptonians goes nuts (it's happened before). This is not a complete list by any stretch of the imagination.

Tonight, I'm gonna need rappelling gear, so I hook a couple hundred feet of line to my belt, coiled loosely, and put some motorized pulleys and wall hooks in one of the pockets. I may need to carry out files, so I take an ultrathin backpack, fold it up, and stick it in another pouch. I take the device I requisitioned earlier out of the cross-town vacuum tube (we us that for sending sensitive packages from cave to cave), download the program I wrote for it, and clip it to my belt. I'm gonna want thermal imaging goggles, for seeing in pitch-black situations where starlight lenses are useless and for spotting laser tripwires. On the belt again. Finally, I put my collapsible bo staff in its sheath and snap the belt on. Getting its familiar weight settled, I move to get my cape.

The cape is also bullet/blade/fire/electricity resistant, and attaches to my tunic in such a way as to be able to support my weight in a pinch. It also stiffens into a slightly curved shape when I run a current of a certain frequency through it (controlled via a switch on my belt), becoming a wing that I can glide on for short distances. An earbud radio/satellite transceiver fits into my left ear, and a throat microphone is attached to the top of my tunic and gets taped to my throat. The last thing I put on every night is my mask, which adheres comfortably to my face and contains starlight lenses, which amplify ambient light to allow for night vision, countermeasures to repel anyone who tries to remove it without my permission and ballistic plastic which protects my eyes from flying objects.

Donning the mask, which I always do last of all, completes my transformation from mere mortal into shadowy avenger of the common man. I am no longer, Tim Drake, teenager. I am now Robin, Teen Wonder, Batman's partner, protector of Gotham and Blüdhaven, bane of criminals everywhere. I check my equipment one last time. It's time to solve crimes, save lives, kick ass, and take names. Satisfied my equipment is ready to go, I climb to the roof and face my destination. I pull out my grappling gun, select a likely target, and fire. As I swing once more into the dark night, I use one hand to tap my earpiece, activating it and letting the rest of the family know I'm on patrol. Here we go again. Rock and roll.


	4. Day In, Day Out

Author's Note: Hey there, Toblerone speaking...I know, I know you're all like "What the hell took you so long?" Well, dear readers, I got _the Block_. Also I moved to California. But more importantly, _the Block_. We tried to make this one nice and long for you guys, and even better, the next one is about ready to go too. Plus, 'O Polemarch and I have come up with a more concrete plotline; we have a better idea of where we're actually going with this now. Don't worry, it may take us a while, but this is _not_ going to be deadfic. It may hibernate a bit here and there, but it's ALIVE! ALIVE, I TELL YOU! So without further ado, we give you:

**Chapter 4**

**Day In, Day Out**

My alarm is screaming. It's really loud… And annoying…

The snooze button is my friend...

You know what I hate? I hate how by the time you fall back asleep, the  
alarm starts screaming again.

But my bed is so comfy and warm. How could anyone want me to get up and go stupid stuff like work when I have a bed as comfy as this? It's stupid of them to expect that. And mean. Who needs work? Not me. I worked last night. I kicked butt and took names. Stupid Oracle made me get a stupid job. What was she thinking? Everyone says she's so smart, but I know better.

Oh well, the sun is in my eyes anyway. I flip the covers off my warm/comfy bed and stretch. It's chilly.

I throw on some workout clothes and slide down the pole to the station. My workout dummies stare at me. Is it weird that I find that comforting? This is the one part of my day where there are no words, no distracting thoughts in my head. It's just routine, nothing new, always the same. Something that I know will never change. The rest of my day will be filled with word-remembering and bat-thoughts and confusing Tim-feelings. But now, with my favorite sword and familiar moves, the words are gone. I like it when all the words are gone. It's nice.

I can't really describe the process of my morning workout… It's like brushing my teeth or combing my hair or getting dressed… just something I have to do everyday. I'm just glad Bruce gave me this robot that cleans up all the dummy body parts for me.

When I'm done, I clean my sword and look at it to see if it needs to be fixed or sharpened anywhere. Today it looks okay so I put it back on my extra weapon wall. Tim calls it my "Badass Martial Art's Weaponry Display," but it's just where I keep the stuff that I don't need as batgirl. There are a lot Samurai swords, four Tai Chi swords, a double-bladed broadsword, some throwing stars, two fighting fans (they have these cool dragon designs on them), a bokken, a shinai, two kamas, two bo staves, two pairs of sais, two pairs of tonfas, three pairs of nunchukus, three pairs of escrima sticks (from Dick), a pretty shield from ancient China that Dinah got me for my birthday (I'm not sure why), a bow and some arrows (From Connor Hawke – I think he had a crush on me), four fencing sabers, a cutlass, two great swords, a mace, three crossbows and some bolts, a trident, and a whip Catwoman gave me.

Tim says I have more supplies here then they have at my dojo, but he's never seen Mr. Wu's backroom. It's really impressive. The first time I went back there, I stood and stared with my mouth hanging open for a while… Even now, just thinking about it makes me a little giddy. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside… I can't start thinking about that now or I'll be late for work.

I slide up the pole (Whee!) and head for the shower. This Tim-weirdness has to be taken care of so I can go over there and take showers without all the awkwardness. The shampoo I keep there is nearly full, but here there's barely anything in the bottle. I shake the stupid thing for what feels like forever. Alfred took away all my Spaghetti-O's, but he didn't get me more shampoo. I don't understand English butlers. They make no sense. I finish showering, get dressed, grab my equipment bag and head out the door.

I love when it's sunny in Blüdhaven. People come outside and kids ride their bikes and you almost forget how scary a place it can be.

I wave across the street at my neighbor, Mrs. Parks, as I walk down the sidewalk towards the coffee shop. She's pretending to be reading a cheesy romance novel, but really she's spying on the Estevez's next door. They're a mid-aged couple with three older kids, who just moved in four months ago. I like them. I brought over some cake right after they first moved (because Alfred said that's what you do when new people move in) and they invited me to dinner. Mrs. Estevez makes really good pie. I love pie.

Mrs. Parks lives alone, her husband died before I knew her. She brought me some Jello when I first moved in. I love Jello too.

She waves back, but then motions that I come over. I don't want to be late for work, but she has muffins so I cross the street to her front porch. This neighborhood is kind of a mix of houses and smaller apartment buildings. There are four houses on this street: mine, Mrs. Parks', the Estevez's, and Old Man Arnold's. Mrs. Parks and I both live alone, but Arnold has a few tenants. They don't like him very much though. He's cranky.

"Hello Cassandra," Mrs. Parks looks over her glasses at me and leans back into her rocking chair, "how are you this morning? Not too tired?"

"Fine. Slept good," I glance over at the muffins on the little table next to her. They smell really good.

"Well." She corrects. "You slept well."

I always forget that, I never know the difference. I shrug and smile the way Dinah taught me (_Remember innocent and oblivious, Cass, innocent and oblivious. Gets them every time_). She arches an eyebrow and I can tell she wants to ask me something, but she's holding back. She holds up the plate of muffins (YES!) and I take a blueberry one.

"You were out quite late again dear," Uh oh, "You weren't home when I turned out my lights last night and I went to bed much later than usual."

Late for Mrs. Parks is going to bed at ten thirty instead of ten.

"Out with friends," I mumble around my muffin and repeat the smile/shrug combo – it's an effective move.

"Oh? With that boy again? What's his name, Jeffery?" Ah, so that's what she's so curious about.

"Tim," I remind, "Tim Drake." That actually gets a physical reaction out of her. She's heard of Tim?

"Drake? As in Wayne Industries' Timothy Drake? The one whose been running those projects all over the city?" Her whole posture has changed.

"Yeah! That's him," She offers me another muffin. Wow. I should mention Tim to more people.

"Well, Cassandra, I didn't know your circle of friends included such... affluent people," I glance at the last muffin on her plate and think about what would happen if I mentioned Bruce or Dick, but Mrs. Parks is nosey enough as it is. She and Old Man Arnold gossip about everybody in the neighborhood. They're going to have a lot to talk about today.

I shrug/smile again, "Well, he buys me rice crispies. I have to go to work now. Thanks for the muffins Mrs. Parks. Bye."

I leave the porch before she can say anything else, but I hear her mutter "rice crispies?" to herself as I go.

I finish the second muffin as I walk away and wonder what it is that makes old people think they need to know everybody's business. Boredom I guess, it's not like they have much else to do. Maybe that's why soap operas are so popular… but Dinah loves soap operas and she does a lot of other stuff… it's a mystery. Whatever.

Brenda looks bored and tired when I finally get to the shop. She's on the phone.

"Uh huh, yeah, yes, no, I didn't ask, yeah, yes, I am, I'm writing it all down," she glances down at her nails and holds back a sigh. I know that look, Tim sometimes gets it when Dana phones him and talks about her dog, Woofers (who is really small, and has little sweaters and always barks at me). Brenda's mom has cats. Brenda's mom likes to tell Brenda about her cats. Brenda hates her mom's cats – she says they're evil. I've never met Brenda's mom's cats. I like Catwoman's cats. Tim doesn't. Tim's allergic.

Brenda sees me and then looks really glad to see me (I love having friends), "uh, Mom, I have customers."

She rolls her eyes at me as her mom continues to talk anyway. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to have a mother… one that's so… there… that you get sick of her… I try not to think about it too much though. It makes me… not really sad but, just… wistful. Alfred taught me that word. I like the way it sounds, even if it is kind of sad.

She puts a hand over the receiver and gives me a tired look, "Pick a table I'll be there in a sec – no Mom, I have no idea if Mr. Flurrerkins is obsessive compulsive or not. I don't think cats can even have that – The usual?"

I nod, she gives me a look that says 'I'm sorry that my mother is so obsessed with cats,' and I head over to a booth by the window. People rush by outside, but I don't look at them.

I guess Babs is a bit like a mom. She calls me every week and complains about Dick, and asks about my job and my reading and whether I've met any new cute boys. Alfred calls too and tells me I need to shop for groceries and stay away from the "tattooed scruffy ruffians" that I meet at parties Brenda invites me to. Dick doesn't really call, but he shows up at my apartment every now and then and brings me old kung fu movies he finds and sometimes we spar or practice the trapeze – which he's better at then me (I know, weird). Bruce shows up too – but usually just to look around, "make sure everything is in order" and scowl. And Tim… he's always around… So, maybe, that's a little bit like a family. Babs is the mom, Alfred is the Dad, I think, or maybe a more like another mom, Dick is the… uh… goofy uncle or brother, Bruce is the stricter dad, and Tim is…. Tim. Wow, that's confusing… and a little weird. So I have a Mom, a mom/dad, a brother/uncle, another dad, and a Tim… That can't be normal.

"Ok," Brenda slides into the booth, across from me, with my tea and my eggs. "Crisis averted," she sighs as she places my breakfast across from me. She slumps back into the booth and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Mr. Flufferkins?" I grab my fork and begin my attack on my breakfast. I'm starving.

"Apparently, Mom's oldest and most dear feline companion is showing signs of OCD, not that I even know how that works, but whatever. Lets not discuss my mother's bizarre pets," she pauses and gives me a little smile, "How's everything on the Tim front?"

I roll my eyes and finish a sip of tea, "There is no 'Tim front' Brenda."

"Oh come on Cassie, don't even try that with me. I've seen the two of you together. Something is going on."

I glance back out the window. How can I explain what I don't understand?

"Ah ha!" She exclaims, "I knew it!"

"No! It's not… I don't… He's my friend."

"Your friend who stares at you the whole time you're here with those big blue eyes-"

"He doesn't stare."

"Does too. I see all you do not wish to, mi amour."

She attempts to snatch a piece of toast off my plate, but I grab her wrist and give her a warning look. She knows better than to mess with my food.

"Ow! Ok, ok, I get it. No toast stealing when Cassandra Cain is emotionally conflicted," I let go of her wrist when she puts the toast back.

"I don't know what's going on with Tim," I say sadly, as I poke at my eggs with my fork.

"He likes you Cass, it's fairly obvious,"

"I don't know."

"Cass, seriously, you can usually tell if two people are attracted to each other just by glancing at them – which I am not even going to try and understand – what's so difficult about this? He likes you, you like him-"

"Hey, how would you know if I-"

"I have eyes!"

I slump back. Brenda's better at arguing then I am. Plus she's right. I hate when she's right – which is always.

"What do I do?" I say quietly. I feel so stupid. Normal people know what to do when this sort of thing happens, right?

"Jump his bones."

"Brenda!"

"It's what I would do," she crosses her arms, leans back and smirks.

"You're gay."

"It's what I would do, if I was a straight attractive Asian girl named Cassandra."

I sigh and ask about her new girlfriend Cindy, so we can stop talking about jumping Tim's bones. She knows what I'm trying to do, but she lets me anyway. I guess I'm fairly easy to read today – most people are when they're distracted. In a fight, this can give me an opening for a strike. But people stuff isn't as easy as fighting stuff.

I finish my breakfast, say goodbye to Brenda and head off to work. I ride the bus and try to ignore a Goth couple making out right next to me.

Mr. Wu and Mr. Wu Jr. are arguing when I get to the dojo. Mr. Wu Jr. is worried that Mr. Wu might scare customers off with his craziness. I like his craziness, but I'm not scared by much, so…

"Ah, Cassandra, you tell idiot son of mine what is really important for learning the art of battle!"

"Uh… practice?"

"Yes! Cassandra knows! Cassandra not idiot like you! I am great master, those who want to be masters must not be afraid! They must practice! They must persevere! They must come back again and again and fight!"

Mr. Wu Jr. sighs and runs a hand through his hair (which is thinning). "Dad, not everyone who comes here is trying to be a master. It's bad for business if you yell at brand new students."

"I yell at you and you're master now!"

"Yes, Dad, I know, but-"

"No buts! All buts with you."

Mr. Wu and Mr. Wu Jr. run the dojo together - they argue a lot. I think Mr. Wu Jr. should just give up, but I can't stop him. I leave them and head back to my little office. I really just keep extra equipment for classes and a schedule in here, but it's still cool that I have one. I have a desk and everything. I have a picture of me and Babs, and a picture of me and Alfred, and one from the last ball of the whole group – me, Tim, Dick, Babs, Alfred, and Bruce. I like my pictures. Sometimes I talk to students or parents of the younger students in here, when they have a problem with a technique or something.

I'm flipping through the schedule Mr Wu Jr. made for everybody (I have a class in a half hour) when Jack shows up at my door. I hate Jack, he's so… greasy.

"Yo. Cassandra. What's going on?" He leans across the door frame with his arms crossed. He's trying very hard to look cool – which is a little sad, so I decide to try to be nice today.

"Not much Jack." He comes in and sits down in the chair in front of my desk and puts his feet up on it, while I look through the locker that I keep some of the gear in. Where did I put those extra padded gloves for the kids' class?

"So, how's that boyfriend of yours? The paper pusher. What's his name? Tom?" Tim isn't a hard name to remember. Jack and I have this talk almost everyday. It's annoying.

"It's Tim. And he's not my boyfriend."

"Oh, right, right, of course," he slides a hand through his hair. I don't think he washes it… "I mean how could a scrawny little cubicle worker hold your attention? You need someone more… powerful, someone like say… myself."

Ew. Oh wow…. That's… wow… so many things are wrong with that… Scrawny?

"Uh, I…" I look at the clock on my desk, (thank goodness), "I have a class!" I yell and run out of the office. I really shouldn't have to run away from Jack. I could silence him with a single blow and end his stupid come-ons, but I don't think Mr. Wu would be too happy if I pummeled his accountant… Actually, Mr. Wu would laugh if I did that…he'd laugh a lot… Mr. Wu Jr. wouldn't though, he might get upset. Mr. Wu handles all the teaching and planning for the dojo, but Mr. Wu Jr. is in charge most of the "business". I'm not sure what that means, but I think it has something to do with money. I like getting money, so I try to just avoid Jack as much as I can.

My classes are Jack free. Which is good. I love all my classes. I love teaching. I love seeing my students get better and helping them get that way. I love doing martial arts all day. It's just… fun… and easy. So much better than sitting at a desk all day doing nothing like Tim. Poor Tim. I think he likes it though; he has a lot of computers to play with. Everyone says he does good things for the city, so it can't be too bad…

The day goes pretty normally, except when Demeter wanders over at the end of the last class. She keeps her eyes closed during the sparring. She's weird, but I like her. She teaches yoga.

"Cassandra child, I'll never understand how you are able to abuse the healthy body as you do. Mother earth gave us our worldly bodies, it is wrong for us to destroy them as we do,"

I'm not really sure what she just said, so I shrug, "I teach people to make sure others don't destroy their bodies. What would mother earth think of that?"

"Hmmm, that is indeed a good point my child," she stares off for a moment.

"Demeter?"

"Hmm?" She's still staring.

"You okay?"

"What?" I think she's woken up now, "Oh, yes, is your Timothy coming in to day, as he so often does?"

"Uh, yeah, he said he was, but he's not my-"

"Good, good. Well Cassandra, mother earth be with you." She walks away. Sigh. No one listens to me. I should just start hitting people to communicate… again…

I glance at the clock – Damn – he'll be here soon I need to-

Too late.

"Cassthinkfast!"

Something small – fast – towards my head – turn – catch – stance – ready – wait – soft - what? – frosting – cupcake? – Cupcake! – Tim!

"Yay! Cupcake." Tim threw a cupcake at my head. He's so nice.

My thoughts (the ones in words anyway) kind of get mixed up sometimes. When something sudden happens or I'm... in motion, moving, reacting…. Acting the way I did before the words came, then the "kick ass ninja" part of my brain takes over and the word part doesn't work as well. I can still think and everything, it's just that the word part is less important.

I eat the cupcake quickly. It's delicious.

"You're welcome, Cass."

"Thanks Tim! I love cupcakes!" I smile, he smiles, and for a few seconds there's no awkwardness, or work, or bats – just us happy to see each other again.

"I know." But, it's not going to 1ast long, because Mr. Wu has come into the room and spotted Tim. He's fast and skilled, but so is Tim. Mr. Wu randomly assaults those he thinks worthy as much as he can (he's attacked me three times today). I was wondering when he'd strike at Tim, and I guess today's the day.

Tim's reflexes are good today. He reacts without thinking, without words – perfectly.

Duck – grab – spin – disarm – counter attack – hesitation – recognition.

Sigh. He moves so… nice… Sometimes if I run into him on patrol, I'll just watch him before letting him know I'm there. I love the way he fights, the mixture of martial arts and acrobatics that Batman and Nighwing taught him, along with his own clever Tim-ness that just makes him so… good. All of us bats are great fighters of course. Batman and Nightwing are just as fun to watch – their body language is sometimes even more… clear than Tim's. Their experience has made their movement better, more understandable. But Tim… Tim has always moved in a way that makes me stare. Even when he's just sitting there – crouched on a gargoyle or staring at computer screen – he's in motion. He speaks to me like no one can… even if he doesn't know it.

"Mr. Wu, my apologies, I reacted without thinking." Tim bows and gives Mr. Wu his staff. Mr. Wu laughs.

"Hah hah hah hah! Very good! You react faster! Good technique."

"Thank you, Mr. Wu."

"Yes, you very good, one of best American fighters! You want job?" I roll my eyes. Mr. Wu is going to be talking about "Cassandra's Number One American fighter" for the next couple of weeks... at least.

"Ah… no, no Mr. Wu. Not right now. I'm… too busy, sir."

"Aww, too bad. Too bad." He actually seems really disappointed. I think Demeter's and Rick's lack of fighting skills are starting to make him sad.

"Cassandra," Mr. Wu turns to me, excited, "you hold on to this one. He good man. Tell him to work with us. Yes! Very good man. Would make good sensei at fighting temple! You hold onto him. You too, Mr. Timothy, you hold onto her. You hold tight! Hah hah hah hah hah!" Ok this is getting annoying. What's with people today? Brenda must be putting up flyers. Or maybe Babs and Dick are getting revenge by paying everyone I know to tell me how wonderful Tim is… I already know guys, you can stop now… Tim is embarrassed, I'm embarrassed, but that's the way things are right now so I smile and say "thanks for the cupcake" like Alfred taught me and he shrugs and smiles back and life goes on.

I get all the left over gear, put it away and grab my books. I'm excited for today's lesson. Last time we read we ran out of time just when Harry was captured by Voldemort and Cedric was dead and it was so sad! But Harry can't die because there are a few more books left, so I'm not that worried. Only Harry Potter can make reading so exciting. But, I wish we didn't have to do the stupid work books. Blegh. So annoying.

Before we leave Jack is being a pest but I make Tim take care of it -- Trip - grab - push - knee - PAIN! - hehehehehe - nice -- and then we go to our deli. The work is hard but the food is good, and I think I'm finally getting better at reading. Plus Pete behind the counter thinks I'm cute so I get free pie. I make sure Tim doesn't notice or he'd get jealous of my pie... also Pete, but mostly the pie. Mmmmm pie.

But soon Harry's out of danger, the workbook pages are filled with my messy handwriting, the pie has run out, the alarms dings and Tim and I have to go. The lesson was both good and weird and so is our goodbye. We talk about our bat plans for tonight, mumble "see you" and leave the deli. Tim walks off without looking back, but the bunching of his shoulder muscles tells me he wants to... sigh... I just want to hug him and have him understand what I do when he blushes and tries not to stare.

I walk back to the dojo in a odd mood.

No matter how hard or... awkward the lesson I hate it when they end. It's one of the few things Tim and I do together thats... bat-free. Which is good. I love doing bat-stuff. Batgirl is who I am. For a long time it was all I wanted to be. But sometimes I want... I need to just be Cassandra. Otherwise I'll end up all alone in some cave... and maybe I'll forget why I fight. I fight for... life and people and birthdays and... and... breathing! I... dunno... When I wake up from nightmares of that day with the dress, the pigtails, his bright white suit and my hands covered in blood, and being so confused because I did what I was supposed to but everything was just so wrong --- it's just nice to have something besides darkness and bats to turn to.

Back at the dojo Demeter is leading a yoga class and Mr. Wu is sitting in the back meditating. I sit next to him.

Breathe - in - out - calm - quiet...

"What does Number One American Fighter do?"

I open my eyes. Mr. Wu is looking at me. Demeter's class is almost over, but I have another half hour until my next one.

"Works in an office... with computers."

"That is sad for Number One American Fighter."

"Yeah."

"It is good thing he has you to fight."

"Yeah" I smile, kiss the crazy man on the cheek and go to my office.

The rest of the day goes by fast. There are a few intermediate and a couple advanced classes which go by faster than the beginner ones.

Soon I'm back at my apartment. I have Spagetti-Os for dinner and go down to the cave.

"Computer." My computer is "voice command operated" so I don't have to deal with all that pesky reading.

_"Welcome Batgirl."_ Also it's voice is very soothing. It's British. Like Alfred.

"Play Messages"

"_Yo, scary lady, it's your boy Jerome."_ One of my favorite snitches. I broke his arm and now he tells me stuff. _"Word is that a bunch of thugs are being called on by some dude named Tyrannus. None of them are the really huge players, but enough have been contacted to cause some talk. They say he's offering big money. No one knows what the money is for or anything but if you're interested you're supposed to go to 121 Brooks Street around eleven tonight. Anyways, scary lady, you know where to find me. Out."  
_  
Hmmm... Tyrannus... Never heard of him.

"Computer. Open Suspicious Persons Database." For the first year and a half I could not say that phrase right.

"_Database Ready._"

"Search: Tyrannus"

As I searches I look for my belt... it's not where I left it.

"_Not Found."_

Okay, must be a new bad guy or an old bad guy with a new bad name.

"Search All Databases"

The belt is in the equipment case. What's it doing there? I left it on the floor.. wait a minute... Where is my cape!?

_"Found: Public Records: Tyrannus Industries."_

Huh. A real company. Thats different.

"CEO?"

Aha! It's hanging up in the closet. How'd it get there?

_"Not Found."_

Alfred must have come in here today and cleaned, everything's been moved around.

"Base of Operations?"

_"121 Brooks Street, Bludhaven._"

Here we go. So the Tyrannus hiring sketchy guys off the street is hiring them at the headquarters of Tyrannus Industries - I'm no Batman but that seems like a connection.

"Specs?"

_"Found."_

There's not much. A website with a cheesy "mission statement," and a logo, some tax records that I'll have to run by Oracle to understand...

"Contact Info?"

Whatever I find I should break up the thug meeting... a group of stupid, dangerous criminals is never good.

"Computer. New File."

_"Ready."_

"Name: Tyrannus Location: Suspicious Persons Database."

_"Done."_

"Put all Tyrannus Industries info into the Tyrannus File"

_"Done."_

I lean back in my comfy computer chair. Batman doesn't like this chair. He says it's "informal." But it's my cave and I'll have comfy chairs if I want.

"Computer. Time?"

_"Nine O'Clock PM."_ Tim's computer clock is in military time. I hate that.

I get up, stretch, do a few exercises and put my gear on. I love my bat-suit. I love the big yellow belt with all the electro spy stuff. I love that it's black and scary. I kick ass in this suit. Oh my mask smells nice! Alfred must have washed it... I wonder how...

I go on a short patrol before heading over to the building. I have a lot of time to look the building around before the meeting. I don't vroom off on the bike. Tonight I leap and swing between buildings, which is fun too. There's not much going on. I stop a mugging and beat up a group of guys attacking a girl.

... Quiet night in Bludhaven...

I crouch in an alley behind the building. Robin's nifty night vision goggles tell me that getting in through the roof will tough, so I look for other ways... There's a loading dock for trucks in the back... and a guard. He's about forty, favors his left leg, right knee is bad, it's older injury, sports related... maybe football... he's bored, tired... waiting... he looks at his watch... maybe his shift is almost up, maybe the next guy is late... he's impatient... looks at the watch again, grumbles... come on, come on... yes! He turns, swipes his key card and goes inside... I'm right behind him.

He tries not to limp in front of cameras, which actually makes him slower, which is good... I know how to avoid beings spotted by cameras, basic assassin trick, but it helps to have someone in front of you. He pulls out his radio.

"Hey Jerry,"

"Yeah Mike,"

"Has Paul checked in yet?"

"Not yet,"

"Well my shift ended fifteen minutes ago and I'm tired of waiting for that pot head to show up. I'm heading up to clock out now."

"Okay then."

He might lead me to the security center... if I can stay with him... He pushes the elevator button. Uh oh. Sneak to the stairs - go up a floor - go fast - avoid cameras - faster - c'mon Cass c'mon - hit the button - wait - wait - wait - ding! - get in - elevator music - ceiling - Vent! - push open - climb up - put vent back - phew...

I just ran up a flight of stairs, flipped past some cameras, pushed a button, waited, got in, climbed through the vent in the ceiling and now I'm catching my breath on top of the elevator as the doors open again - for Mike...

He hums with the music. Tim likes this song.

Rock the cash box. Rock the cash box.

I don't get the words to this song.

Ding! Oh, we're here.

I slip out of the vent behind Mike. Quietly. He's still humming. The doors open and we start making our way to the security center.

Mike goes in... I wait outside... listen... two voices... no... three? No, it's a television. Jerry's watching reruns... Mike's seen this episode before... footsteps... Mike leaves, I go in as the door closes behind him.

It's dark inside, like most surveillance rooms, so that they can see the screens more clearly. Not that Jerry is doing that... He's watching some crime show... I've seen the commercials for it, doesn't look good. He watches his show and I watch the cameras.

There are less cameras then I expected. Looks like it's just the entrances, a few hallways, and some rooms on the twentieth floor filled with... computers? But they're... different... not normal... I don't know how computers work, but I know what they look like and this is... just strange... I should get up there... take pictures to show to Oracle, maybe she'll know what they are.

I think I'll take the elevator.

Hm hmm Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Elevator music is good here. I should do surveillance more often.

The elevator stops on the nineteenth floor and then I take the stairs. There's a guard a few floors up. On the cameras he was walking from floor to floor with a flashlight. He was on the twenty second floor when I left the surveillance room. I could wait it out until he passes over my floor... I bet the rooms with the weird computers will be locked... could take some time to open them... need somewhere else... maybe a air-vent or... a closet! There's one down the hall. Perfect.

I wait... and wait... and wait some more... and then there's... something... and then something else. Two sets of footprints? Two guards? But there was only one on the camer--

Door opens - someone twirls in - fast, fit - fit guard? - strikes before I can - block - other hand - strike - block - head rears - stops  
- confusion --

"Batgirl?"

What!?

"Robin?"


	5. Secret Agent Man

A/N: Welcome back, fair readers. Polemarch speaking, yes, you can't believe it, it's an update within two months of the last! We told you we hadn't abandoned this fic, and we meant it. More coming soon; I have Chapter 7 and 9 partially written and I know Toblerone is slogging her way through 6 and 8, possibly as we speak! So hang on and keep those revews coming (especially for Toblerone's chapters. She needs the ego boost.)

**Chapter 5**

**Secret Agent Man**

Okay. This is a standard infiltration. I'm across the street from the objective, roughly 60 feet from the roof. As far as I can tell, no one notices me yet. Time to sweep for traps, alarms, etc. I take my thermal goggles from my belt and slip them on over my mask, switching them on as I do so. The world goes black and white, white for hot and black for cold. I take a good look at the roof. A light near a staircase glows white. Some air conditioning units alternate white and black, for different areas of cooling, and an electrical transformer practically shines out in the night. I'm looking for my way in, an air vent that exhausts hot and stale air to the surrounding atmosphere... There it is. A plume of white over a grid of black in the center of the roof. Now, other traps...right, thermal goggles show me thin lines of white in front of the door, around the transformer, and by the AC units. Weird. Who the hell puts a laser grid around air conditioning?

Anyway, the roof of the stairway down looks clear. I switch the goggles in to EM mode, where they display electric and magnetic fields in varying shades of blue and white. I actually can take credit for having this feature; I saw it in a spy video game on one of my few days off and I then went out and looked up to see if that technology was really possible. It wasn't, at the time, and so I talked to Bruce and he put the Wanyetech R&D department on it. It took them 3 months to come up with something, which is actually less of an optical device like the thermals and more of a kind of radar. Either way, it works, and I've actually contributed something to the Bat-Family's gear that Batman _hadn't_ already thought of. Bruce gave me one of his rare half-smiles (Cass calls them Bat-Grins because they appear suddenly, surprise you, and then disappear before you know what's happened).

Anyway, the goggles are showing me pretty much the entire electrical grid on the top two floors of that building. On the roof, I can see the power to the lights and laser grids, all of the communications equipment, and then, most importantly, what looks like cameras. Ok, so what are the holes I can exploit? Camera doesn't appear to cover the air vents. Check. Lasers cover the ladders, the doors, and the machinery. So I need to avoid them on the way down. Best bet: land on top of the staircase shack.

Readying myself, I locate an appropriate nearby building to act as a pivot and base for my grapple and I fire the grapple gun. I back up and give the line a quick tug to make sure it's secure. The way it's designed, if it isn't dislodged with a pull, it won't get dislodged. Some weird force-amplifying effect in the design. I don't entirely understand the physics behind it. Seems to be in order, though. Gauging the angle, I break into a sprint, and with one foot up on the ledge, leap into space.

This is one of the most exhilarating parts of the job, the swinging from building to building. One of the more dangerous, since any failure in equipment will doom you, but that only adds to the excitement. In the past, I've suited up and brought extra line along just so I could get my exercise for the day in a more entertaining way, running on roofs and jumping the gaps, instead of hitting a treadmill or doing push-ups or something. Not that those don't have their place, of course, but this is so much more entertaining. It's the second-closest I can get to unaided human flight (closest being cape-gliding). If only all those super-people knew how much I envied them. While each jump is a thrilling moment for me, it is, alas, a short lived pleasure.

Which is why one really has to pay attention while roof-swinging—a wrong move, and you either end up hanging in midair with no momentum (if you're lucky), smashed against the side of a building (if you're not) or pavement pizza (in which case you may not have to worry about luck any more). My momentum picks up. I see the roof approaching. Coming in, careful not to roll off the other end of the roof…nice. Stuck the landing. The (nonexistent) crowd goes wild. I get a 10 from all the (imaginary) judges.

Ok, on the roof of the stair shack. I see the door, and with thermals, the lasers. Lasers are easy enough to avoid if you can see them; the camera is the problem. I can enter the vents without the camera seeing, but getting from here to there unseen will be interesting. Looking around, I notice a small gutter along the roof of the shed for collecting rainwater. How do I get over there without attracting attention?

I have an idea. I pull out my bo staff and push the button to extend it. The bo is adjustable in length and detachable; one push of the extension switch snaps it to five feet long, another push brings it out to a whole seven, and the push of another button and a twist separates it into two sections. I test the gutter first with the staff, and then with my boot, and it seems pretty solid. Good. Pressing the button a second time, I take the whole seven foot staff, back up as far as the shack will let me, get a good grip, plant the bo in the gutter and launch myself as far forward as I can. I immediately retract the staff as soon as I feel it leave the gutter behind me so it doesn't trip the lasers. I fly though the air, completely clear the lasers and the AC unit, and land crouched next to the vent. Nice. A perfect short pole vault, if I do say so myself. I should really do this kind of thing competitively—though on second thought they probably wouldn't let me compete in a mask. Oh well.

I completely collapse my bo and put it back on my belt. Then, examining the vent, I switch back into EM mode on the goggles to ensure it isn't electrified or alarmed. It isn't. Guess they didn't think of everything, despite the lasers on the AC (I can't seem to get over that, can I?). Time to head down.

I have a small electric drill/screwdriver on my belt, and so the screws holding the vent on are short work. Then, I reach into the now gaping hole in the roof and drill small holes through the metal lining and into the concrete ceiling on either side of the vent. I take out my concrete wall-hooks and clamp them in the holes, then attach the cord to the hooks and to my harness. I toss the rest down the hole. Double and triple-checking my gear, I brace myself and carefully lower myself into the inky black abyss.

Gradually putting my weight onto the harness, I hear the rope and the clamps squeak and creak, but no snaps, cracks or pops (Rappelling gear should never sound like Rice Crispies). Sounds good. Mentally double checking the plans, I snap on my thermals and begin my descent. Main server room is located on the 15th floor, smack dab in the center of the building, and is likely the largest source of heat in this part of the ventilation system at this time of night. Therefore, all I have to do is drop 15 floors and then follow the warm air in my thermal goggles. See? Navigation in total darkness made simple.

I let myself drop, feeling the heat from the friction of the rope sliding through my gloves. 1 floor. 2 floors. 5 floors. 10. 13... slow down now... 14 floors... 15. Swiveling around, I decide that one of the vents to my right exhibits the strongest glow. I softly swing myself towards the duct, back and forth until I get enough momentum to grab the edge, and get myself seated there. Confident I won't be continuing my drop into the deeper reaches of the building, I detach the line from my harness and use a magnet to stick it to the wall so I can reach it later. Into the vents.

I crawl on my hands and knees through the system, cape shuffling softly along the side in the darkness and stale air. After about 10 minutes of crawling, shuffling, and turning, I arrive at a vent facing down. I switch into conventional night vision mode. Monitors and blinking lights. We have a winner. Out comes the electric screwdriver again, and unscrewing with one hand and keeping the grate from falling with the other, I gain entrance.

With a soft thump, I drop into the server room and crouch down to gain my bearings. I slide my goggles up onto my forehead; a soft glow of status lights and monitors reaches my eyes, the overhead lights dark. The room is very large, and floor-to-ceiling computer cabinets stretch in either direction. There are no cameras here, probably because the designers didn't expect any intruders to get this far in the first place and (I suspect/hope) partially because they didn't want the security guards seeing what they were doing on these computers.

I walk up to a machine and turn the monitor on. Ok, login screen. Looks like a pretty secure rig. Hacking it myself might take hours. Luckily, I have very best computer scientist and hacker in the world on call, 24 hours a day. Well, at least when she isn't trying to kill me over my last comment about Nightwing. I tap my ear piece.

"O, this is R, I've reached objective alpha. Ready to support?"

"Hey R. Early start, I see. Pulling up software now." I hear the soft tapping of keys and whirring of computer fans over the connection.

"You have physical access?"

"Yep. Sitting right smack in the middle of a forest of high-power commercial rigs. Walk me through."

"Ok, you're gonna need root access, and most of the desktop boxes are probably workstations with no privileges. Find a terminal hooked to one of the big racks. Usually there's only a few of them, and they all give full access, provided you can bypass security."

"Got it, O." I walk around for a minute or so, and eventually stumble across a suspect machine.

"Right, here we are."

"Ok, pop out your eye-triple-ee-thirteen-thirty-four connection in your mini comp and see if you can't plug us in."

"Six or four pins?"

"Six. You think you can brute force something with only four?"

"yeah, yeah, I know, you and your bandwidth..." Yes. We are huge computer nerds and we have no shame. I reach over to the box itself and find just such a connection. I plug in and connect my mini-pc to my comms transmitter.

"Ok, O, we're on the air."

"Got it." I watch as the All-Seeing Oracle, from miles away in another city, slowly but surely invades and takes control of the 'enemy' server. After a couple of minutes of mumbling under her breath through the radio and my going over the building plans again on my mini-pc, a small welcome screen appears.

"Huh. Weird user/pass," Babs comments.

"Whaddya mean?"

"username is C-O-X-I-I-I-C-O-R-P-S, password is R-U-B-I-C-O-N"

"huh." I wonder what that says about the administrator. Rubicon? As in the river in Italy? Crossing the Rubicon means going past the point of no return…this does not bode well.

"Yeah. Ok, into the network. Whatcha looking for?"

"Anything suspicious, really. This place has apparently become something of a hot spot among two bit thugs, which is weird because usually they avoid the business district like the plague. Y'know, it's like the only place the cops really work."

"'Haven PD has got to be better than that. I mean, Dick never..."

"Hey, I mean no offense to old shortpants. Your sweet baboo never did anything wrong," I say with a grin. I know that she isn't going to respond to that, because she knows if she did, it would openly confirm to me what everyone knows anyway; that she still, after all these years, really cares for one Mr. Richard Grayson, despite whatever fits she might throw in public. I sometimes wish they'd finally just be done with it, one way or the other, but then I'd have nothing to rib them about. And that would be a terrible tragedy.

Or maybe she will confirm it. I can hear the indignation in her voice as she responds, even through the computer distortion. "Hey, I don't poke your soft spots. You want my help or not? I've got about 15 other cases with just as much urgency here, and you try explaining to Superman that the reason that you haven't hacked Lex Luthor's network yet was because you were trading insults with Robin."

"Alright, alright I was just playing around, jeeze we're sensitive."

I hear an exaggerated sigh. "Ok, I'm reading three big encrypts, two secured intranets, and a crapload of unidentified executables." In layman's terms, that's three large files which are encoded, two networks that only this company can access, and a lot of programs that we've never seen before. I consider my response.

"Well, forget the executables, since they probably require resources that only exist on these networks. Probably best to plant backdoors in their intranets, though, in case we need 'em later. They'd take too much time to search now. How tight is the encryption on the other three, O?"

"Um." I can almost see her rubbing the bridge of her nose in thought. "This might take a while. The titles look like random letters and numerals and so I don't have any language to go on, and I also don't know what kind of files they're supposed to be when they come out…weird."

"What's up?"

"Well, I think I've gotten past the encryption but it's just giving me more lines of gibberish. It could be that they encrypted it more than once, or they used a one-time pad. If it's just layered encryption, I should be able to break it given enough time. But if it's a one-time pad…" I grimace. One-time pads are large pads of paper (or computer files, nowadays) completely filled with letters in random order, and they're produced in matching sets.

"Yeah, I know, it'd be mathematically unbreakable unless you have a pad identical to the one used to encrypt it. OK, time for Plan B then." I reply.

"I always hated Plan B's."

"If you think they're bad you should see my Plans C and D."

"I shudder to think. Anyway, Robin, you need anything else? I've got Bats on line 2, and Booster Gold and Blue Beetle want me to settle a trivia question for them."

"Haven't they ever heard of the internet? But no, I'm good for now."

"Hey, call me if you need me. I'll be here all night."

"You always are. Robin, out."

OK, time to move on. This encryption business worries me slightly. It could be that they're just paranoid, but that also means that they have something to hide. The other thing that occurs to me is that the files—hell, the whole network—are just a whole lot of misdirection designed to throw off an investigator like me. But that would imply that they were expecting someone to come along. In that case, then, this could be one big trap. They haven't sprung it yet, though, so I'm still holding out hope for general paranoia.

I pack up my mini-comp…and none too soon, it appears. There are heavy footsteps coming down the hallway outside the server-room. Security patrols? Late night workers? Janitors? Doesn't matter, no time. I spend five seconds snapping the vent cover back onto the ceiling so it isn't suspicious and then I bolt, running as quickly and quietly as I can to the door on the opposite side of the room. Damn, maglocked! I tear the new piece of gear I programmed this morning off of my belt and place the business end up against the wall. I move it around until one of the lights on the side, a red one, lights up, which means that it's found live wires inside the wall. I jam on the unlock button, my heart pounding, and the next light, a yellow one, begins flashing, which means it's trying to cut the circuit. FASTER! Looking behind me I can see a silhouette in the other door's frosted glass. Yellow, yellow, yellow…Green!

I whip the door open as I hear the people on the other end fiddling with the keypad on the lock and throw myself through the door, taking my device with me and closing the door as quickly as I can without slamming it. I take a second to breathe. Damn, that was close. Ok, well the good news is, if that was their idea of a trap, then this should be easier than I thought. I somehow doubt it.

On to the next step: President's office. I work my way down the hallways carefully, using my plans to make sure I don't stumble into any areas covered by security cameras. I snap my goggles back down and put them in EM mode just in case they've made any recent modifications, but nothing so far.

Five flights of stairs and three darkened hallways later, I finally get myself in front of the Prez's office. Sigh. More locks; magnetic and conventional. And an alarm panel. What I wouldn't give for the freedom to whip out the primacord and just blow the door out of its frame. Oh well. I get out my maglock pick (as I've just dubbed it), a roll of duct tape, and my lockpick set. I use the maglock pick to find the lock and alarm wires, and then tape it to the wall as it works on disabling them (Oh how I love duct tape…and mine even has little yellow R's printed on it). I'm gonna have to leave it out here when I enter the room, so that the alarm stays off, and so the tape comes in handy. It cuts out the alarm system and I go to work on the regular lock. After some work it clicks open and I'm in.

I enter the room, and my mind shifts into "detective mode." A desk, big windows, couches. Armchair. Large office. Very clean desk; not even a nametag of a picture, just a pair of pens and a blotter. Large mirror on one wall—is our prez an egotist? Carpeted floor; need to remember to clear footprints when I leave. I move slowly over to the desk, observing as I go. Something about this place is off. I have a certain suspicion…I move behind the desk and slide the wheeled leather armchair out of the way.

My suspicion is confirmed. This side of the desk is spotless; as if it had never been used. Even the best-cared for chairs and desks would show _some_ signs of wear; this looks as if they'd just bought it. I open one of the unlocked drawers. Empty. I switch into EM mode on my goggles, sure this has to be some sort of trap, but no, the desk isn't wired. The top drawer is locked, so maybe I'll have better luck there, and I pull my picks out again. It clicks open. Huh. Some pens and office supplies… that look completely unused…and a book filled with gibberish. Could this be our one-time pad? Worth a try. I snag it and put it in a pouch on my belt. Maybe Oracle can use it. Still, what the hell? This is like someone built an office the way they thought a CEO's office should look, without actually having a CEO.

Alright. two stops so far and barely anything to show for it: unintelligible computer files, an unused "president's" office, and a book filled with random letters. Maybe I should have just gone on patrol tonight; at least I would have gotten some more exercise. Maybe I would have run into Cass. We could have kicked ass together. We're good at that.

Anyway, back to business. My next objective: The unlabeled rooms from the plans. This is going to require a little more work: although they're all next to each other on the same floor, every access hallway to them is covered by moving cameras, which I have to avoid, likely using my acrobatic skills to their limits. Dick would think this is the fun part… but he grew up in a circus. Cass also makes this kind of thing look easy, the way she just waltzes gracefully out of the camera's line of sight…like she's dancing to music that no one can hear but her. But there I go again, getting distracted.

Ok…the first camera turns away and I run forward, leap, and roll to a stop under it and out of its sight. The next one starts panning towards me…the first one turns away…now! I leap and wind up out of sight again. One left before my objective…I'm gonna have to get in between the last two as they're parallel to each other…a bound…and a cartwheel…whew. Made it. Cass would be proud. I think.

OK, Mystery room number one. My maglock pick (I'm so glad I brought this thing) makes short work of the lock and I commit yet another act of breaking and entering. And I've found…I don't know what? Well this was unexpected. This entire room is lined, from floor to ceiling, with…Things I've never seen before. Some sort of electrical equipment? There are screens, but the readout is more random letters with no observable pattern… no printers, no wires, no keyboards…desks but no papers…is it a computer bank? Lemme check EM….Woah. _Everything_ in here is radiating electromagnetic energy like crazy. Not like a computer, where you can see the pattern of wires…no, the walls look like they're solidly _glowing_ in the EM goggles. Something Is Not Right Here.

I click off the goggles and pull out my mini digital camera, and start taking pictures. Maybe this is alien technology, in which case I definitively need to share it with the rest of the family, maybe the Justice League. I take a shot of anything that catches my eye at all. Then, deciding that I Really Need To Know what this room is used for, I pull one of my little recording devices and stick it behind one of the, uh… apparatuses using its built in adhesive. Maybe a recorded conversation will break the case. One can always hope.

Well, having gotten nowhere in quite a hurry this night, I decide it's time to leave, and maybe I can work off a little frustration on some ne'er-do-wells before it gets light. Maybe I'll call Dick and vent a little; we make fun of each other a lot but we really are there for each other when it counts. In any event, it seems as though I haven't been detected, so getting out should be about as easy as getting in was…

Goddamn it why do I ever even think things like that. Footsteps behind me as soon as I leave the room. Someone switches on the hallway lights. They can't see me yet, but now I need to be out of here _five minutes ago_. My mind goes into overdrive as I focus my whole being on getting out of this area. I flip past cameras, sprint to the next blind spot, slide into a corner, and almost see myself doing it in slow motion with all the adrenaline. Normally I wouldn't freak out about a couple of guards, but if I tip off someone that I'm investigating them then they'll start to cover their tracks, making my life even harder.

#&! More footsteps, this time in front of me. Where are these people coming from at this time of night? No time to think about it. I go to Plan Z, which is to say that I need to hide _now_ and I'm making it up as I go along. Aha! A janitor's closet. I rush towards it, yank the door open, twirl myself inside, and yank the door closed again. I then attempt to stop breathing, as it's too noisy. That was too close. Ugh, quiet, Tim! I'm still breathing too loud. I hold my breath, and steps pass by the door without stopping. Whew. Dodged that bullet.

What the…? I still hear breathing…but I'm still holding my breath…_There's someone else in here!_ A sudden shuffle of movement in the dark as I strike out towards the sound. Something—someone—grabs my arm as it extends, so I swing my other hand to break their grip—blocked, they have both my hands now, crossed in front of me. Thinking fast, I pull my arms apart with as much force as I can muster, drawing my opponent towards me as I wind up for a headbutt…and stop short just in time to avoid smacking my skull into…Batgirl's forehead?!?

"Batgirl?" I whisper as loudly as I dare.

"Robin?" She replies, inches from my face, the reflection of the light coming under the door shining on her black eye lenses.

"What are you doing here?" We ask each other at the same time, and then both stifle a laugh as the tension breaks.

"I was investigating!" whispers Cass. "Got a message."

"Yeah, me too. Did you find anything?"

"There's a room with all this…weird…stuff." She sounds clearly confused.

"Yeah, I saw it too. I've never seen anything like it before. This whole place is strange. There are parts that look like they've never been used, but there's security everywhere, and nothing is written in English."

"People outside too."

"Oh? Are they thugs? My informant said there might be." Cass nods her head at this. I instinctually pull my hand towards my face to scratch my forehead in thought, but it doesn't move and I realize that she's still got both my hands in a death grip. I look back at her eyes, but only see my own face reflected back at me in the lenses.

"Uhh…Cass…you're still holding my wrists."

"Oh! Sorry." She lets go, and I let my arms fall to my side, but we still stand there, inches apart. I don't know how long we stand there, hearing nothing but the sound of each other's breathing and seeing nothing but each other's impassive, masked faces.

An indeterminate amount of time later, some subtle change in the atmosphere breaks…whatever that was… and we simultaneously turn away from each other and back up.

"You ready to get out of here, Cass?" I ask, with more feeling in my voice than I intended. I must be so incredibly readable right now. I think I almost hope she sees what I feel, because I know I'm not going to have the courage to say it out loud. She looks back quizzically for a second, then replies.

"Yeah." My heart leaps. Am I not the only one who can't just say what I feel? A swelling of hope and fear, mingled together, rises in my chest. I stare for just a second longer, but then my deep-ingrained Bat instincts re-assert themselves.

"OK, I have a way out through the air vents in one of the server rooms. It's a bit of a walk, but I think we can do it fine, even with two people. How did you get in here, anyway, Cass?"

"I walked." I'm not even going to ask how she did it exactly; probably something so simple that anyone would think of it but so difficult that no one else could pull it off. I show Cass the plans I used to get this far, and I can tell she's going through her route in her mind. She never ceases to amaze me. She deals with amazing adversity every day, but always overcomes her mental difficulties, one way or another. Her capacity for learning is incredible. She's constantly frustrated, but Cass never gives up, only gets angry and tries harder. She once lost her incredible fighting ability, and knowing full well it would kill her, decided to take it back by force rather than live in mediocrity. This is a girl who has literally been to hell and back, died twice because she refused to kill, only brought back to life because her killer was also her mother. And I, the Teen Wonder, Batman's golden boy, who's spent years and years training with Batman and the most skilled people he could find, still feel somehow lacking when I see her mow through opponents like so many blades of grass. And craziest of all, even with all my tons of emotional baggage, I just can't stop thinking about her.

She points towards the door and cocks her head to the side. I nod and turn for the door. We start our way out of the building.


End file.
